Crossing the Rubicon
by Cansei de Ser Sexy
Summary: Being Batman has taught him about crossing the lines with no safe returns, but when the only person who has ever figured out his secret tags herself along with his life, the journey suddenly becomes a much more rough ride.
1. Part I-I

_Hello, as promised, the revised version Every Contact Leaves Its Trace-Book One; originally written in 2011; posted in 2012; revised as 2015. __For the new readers; the same basis still applies; this takes place after The Dark Knight, and it features a gender-bendered version of Coleman Reese; named as Cameron Reese. Canon-wise, nothing changed, ie, Bruce only saved a she instead of a he. What lies beneath though is this story._

_The Part I is in three chapters. First two cover the Dark Knight from Cameron's side, and the third picks up after the movie with Bruce._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**Prologue**

_January, 2009_

The dogs had bigger prey to hunt, but she wasn't taking any chances. Perhaps the commissioner could offer her protection or some sort of negotiation, but she wouldn't know because she _wasn't_ going to give away her position. She wasn't taking any chances.

Obviously, the police were out of the question. That much she had known at the moment she had heard the latest news of Batman. The safe house where Gordon had sent her was located on the outskirts of Gotham, gently flirting with the big city. Escape hadn't been as difficult as she had presumed nor the young police officer that had stationed to monitor her. The blonde on TV had been still going on about Batman's last criminal acts when she had knocked him out to the floor.

Yes, the police were certainly out of question, so was the mob. She doubted there was any lost love between them, and even if there was, it wouldn't really matter because she wasn't going to sell him out. _Not this time._

**Part I: **

**Part I. I – An Unexpected Twist**

* * *

_August, 2008_

As the poet said long ago, all world was a stage, and all the men and women merely players, playing their parts; the game, however, this time was her own.

All things considered, "Cameron Reese" was a good character; one of the best she had ever created; a good woman, a good daughter, and a good lawyer, and even better she was easy to miss. The world was all around her, but no one would take a notice, the world overshadowing her.

The youngest of four girls whose father dreamed of having a son, little Cameron had been raised as an obedient daughter who talked little and smiled even less. All her life had been laid out to her since that fateful day at the doctor's office when her parents had been informed that they were waiting another baby girl. There had been no surprises in Mr. Reese's life so he didn't see any reason why there should have been any in his daughters'.

When Cameron graduated from Harvard with a degree in Law, her father held her by shoulders and she was told that he was proud of her, yet the cloud over his eyes didn't go by unnoticed. Cameron knew what it meant, and her father did too; but they didn't talk about it. Discussing feelings wasn't appropriate in the Reese family.

When Cameron told her father that she had been appointed to evaluate the books for Wayne Enterprises, her father smiled and told her he was proud, and she smiled back. But she's still not a son, he must have thought.

In three months she spent in the Wayne Tower, it was like she had been there since the beginning of time, someone everyone would always take for granted. She never tried to bother with making friends, but always obediently did what she was asked, sometimes did it even before the question was asked. So no one was particularly bothered either by this aloof, reserved woman who talked little and smiled even less, as long as she did her part, and gave her what she needed the most; space and time.

And it _worked_, for a while, it really worked, nice and fine, until one man barged into her stage and brought an unexpected twist into her little play.

* * *

On a sunny day at the top of the ever majestic Wayne Tower, Cameron Reese was sitting behind the long oval desk in the main meeting room, looking like how corporate lawyers all around the globe were supposed to look like; cold, calculating, and wary, and she had a very good reason to be wary, because things weren't going as she had planned. By now she should already have left Gotham without any trace, not wasting precious time in board meetings.

The Chinese suit of LSI Holdings was talking about opportunities and such, but heavy accented words were pointless as they were lost under a soft snoring. Her eyes flicked toward the source of the sound, toward the man who had stolen her spot light together with her easy-way-out, and once again her hands clenched underneath the table. _God damn him to Hell and back!_ But despite the latest but certainly not the last execration, the Prince of Gotham still kept snoring in his perfect poise; slumped back against his chair, his head lolled over the headrest, like he hadn't any single care in the world. _This_ was stupid, she decided, entirely and completely stupid. She should have left long ago…

Admittedly, the corporate cons had never been her first preferences, but a girl always had to look for greener pastures. The plan, though, was still simple, one of the oldest tricks; find a mark, infiltrate it, find dirt, then sell it to the highest bidder. Not exactly delicate, yes, but effective the same.

Unfortunately she hadn't calculated in the Bruce Wayne factor. Being filthy rich, she could excuse him from mundane things like his company's business, but falling asleep in board meetings was entirely another thing. Not that they were fascinating things; even she had had to pinch herself a few times to keep her attention where it belonged, but still… Her glare returned to the sleeping beauty; his back leaned in a posture only bursting bank accounts could supply, his features eased into a peaceful state, his broad chest moving up and down with his steady breaths. She wondered briefly if he was faking it. Even she of all of people wasn't sure what he could possibly hope to accomplish with this kind of mockery, but he was very, very rich, and rich people were known to be eccentric.

If it had been another time, she wouldn't have minded it. After all, who was she to complain about fake personalities? No, she would have sat back and enjoyed the show, as long as it wasn't interfering with her path. But this wasn't any other time, and he was definitely interfering with her path now. She needed him to sign the papers to finish the deal so she would just get the hell out of here. Leaving in this stage, when things had yet come to a conclusion might draw attention later.

She sighed inwardly. This...game had proved itself more tiresome than she had expected and she was getting fed up with playing the Good Girl. She wished she had been in her usual circle of friends where she could smack some fine points of business into their heads.

But, she wasn't quite ready to call it quits yet either. She refused to throw in the towel just because of a rich boy, however ridiculously eccentric he might be. She had spent months planning this con, had Jeremy hacked into the Bar and Harvard databases to register her name in the books, endured the mundane nine-to-five office life for three months. No, she had come here for a reason and she wasn't going back with empty hands.

Soon the meeting came to the end; there weren't many things to be discussed when the supposed chairman kept snoring after all. Quickly she stood up and walked toward Wayne Enterprises' CEO Lucius Fox. She held her ground before the man, readying herself for a fight, one foot slightly before the other, arms tight at her sides. The pose would be a little bit out of her character for Cameron, but she was really getting fed up.

"Mr. Fox—" she started, getting her tone appropriate for talking to a superior about the big boss and glanced back at the snoring man, "sir, I know Mr. Wayne is curious about how his trust fund gets replenished," she said, as a sneer sneaking in her tone despite of her best efforts. Well, at least she tired. Her eyes turned to Fox, "but this is embarrassing."

Fox mimicked her gesture, his eyes found Wayne then they turned back at her. There was something in his gaze, an undeniable snootiness that made her stomach clench. Usually standing on the other side of proverbial line, she hated receiving those kinds of looks, meant only to condescend. "You worry about diligence, Ms. Reese," the arrogant pompous ass taunted, "I'll worry about Mr. Wayne."

She half-turned and closed her eyes. _Count to ten…just think of the money …just think of the money..._ Fortunately that was all the motivation she needed. She turned back to face Fox, and with all the aloofness she could gather she muttered, "The numbers are solid."

He gave her another patronizing look, this time accompanied with an equally irritating smile. "Do them again," he ordered, and turned to leave, but not before adding over his shoulder, "Wouldn't want the trust fund to run out now, would we?"

She glared at his retreating back and sniffed. This had better be worth it.

* * *

She did the numbers again. She didn't know the reason; when she thought she was sure about something she usually tended to be right about it, hence the numbers were solid, much like the first time. Then she did something else. She didn't know the reason this time, either, but something had urged her, something almost primal, as much as irresistible. If she were lucky enough, she might find something against Fox and turn the tables on him. So she didn't stop with the books that she had been appointed to, but searched Wayne Enterprises' other funds as well.

Then she caught something.

It was easy to assume as a small glitch, easy to overlook; but to her it stood out like a red flag, flashing through the screen. She decided to dive deeper, to search for other such anomalies, but to do that it was necessary to break into the files she didn't have authorization to see. That thought was enough to put her off.

_Not with haste_, she warned herself. Delicate situations require careful planning. With proper tools and time she could hack into their systems. It wouldn't be easy but she could pull it off. And if it proved to be beyond her skills her she could easily hire Jeremy for another job. It would be a child's play for the best hacker money could buy to find his way in.

But was it necessary? No, not really. She was here with a goal, as impossible as it seemed, and she had enough problems already; this wasn't time to chase after personal vendettas. There likely wasn't any profit to gain from that road, except putting Fox in his place, which would be quite the pay-off, if she had to admit.

_Don't get childish_, chided half of her mind while the other started to list necessary precautions: An untraceable laptop is a must… No, stop, she ordered herself. There must be other ways to get back at Fox without risking her cover identity. No man with his status could have risen to where he stood with clean hands.

With that thought in mind, she started to investigate his background. His ascension to power, fall, and re-ascension was a curious case; the favorite subject of Wayne Enterprises' grapevine since Wayne had come back from death. Suddenly it hit her, hit her hard. Straightening in her seat, she checked the dates. They matched.

The glitch was the same day when Fox legendarily had returned from his exile in the basement; the day his former department had merged with Archives; the same day Bruce Wayne had regained his throne from William Earle, sneaking off the bits and bits of it through the front companies under Earle's nose. A definite hostile takeover, but also illegal?

She smiled. It seemed so.

She stood up and headed to the elevator to descend into basement. There was something, something in there, she was sure of it.

And like of most of times, she was again right. If she had known what kind of trouble that unexpected twist would have brought up, for the first time all in her life she would wish she hadn't been.

* * *

She went over her options that night. Jason had used to warn her about greed all the time. _You must have control your greed before it starts controlling you_, she could almost hear his voice, _"People say because of our profession we're greedy,"_ he was saying in her mind, his unlit cigarette hanging at the corner of his lips out of habit. He couldn't be counted as a good father according to any social principles but there had been times when in his own way he had been trying. "_To some extent, I must admit, kiddo, it's true," _a shrug in the voice,_ "but I discovered some time ago the easiest way to get into the trouble is greed exceeding your abilities."_ And a mocking finger fixing at her, _"Know thyself."_

When she had seen the designs of that ugly thing that occupied the news every night, jumping from roof to roof, she had laughed. The sound had ripped through the abrasive silence of Archives, and despite it she had laughed again.

How delightfully unexpected... how very interesting.

Once the shock of discovery wore off, she pondered what to do. Making sacrifices was a part of life, especially in their line of work. If your chosen profession was being a con-artist, sooner or later you were bound to learn forsake some things in favor of others, or else you wouldn't last long in the game.

Yes, the con wasn't big but it was still good enough, and more importantly it was _clear_ enough. Even before seeing their books she had been suspecting of LSI's illegal activities but after seeing how they were washing the mob money, she had become sure of it. They wouldn't likely call a full investigation on it. They would surely want to deal with it themselves but she had been very careful not to leave any traces that would lead them to her, as it was the main reason why she had become stuck at Wayne Enterprises at the first place. She had made Cameron Reese's background impeccable and had been keeping her in character ever since. Truthfully though, more than anything she had been trusting over the fact that LSI wouldn't want to get their hands dirty over her when they had so much bigger fish to fry.

She could sell that information in the black market for a couple of hundred dollars, but the secret she had unburied must be worth of millions; after all it wasn't every day when you discovered one of the wealthiest _and_ stupidest men in the world was banking and backing up an armored vigilante, burning through cash to build him _tanks_ to regularly pancake police cars. She could almost see the headlines.

And she could definitely see the look on Fox's face, too.

She went to sleep that night with dreams full of money, and a content happy smile over her lips, dreaming of Fox's face as she told him she had him.

When the morning came, the common sense returned. _Don't stray off the path_, Catherine had used to warn her all the time when she was a child, or _else you would get lost. _Stay on the path, stick to the plan. It was a good mantra; there was some wisdom in it even though she hated to admit it. But still she stuck to the plan and went to Wayne Tower the next day; only to find out she wasn't the only one who had taken an interest in LSI.

The District Attorney Dent had green lighted an S.E.C investigation. Lau Han had hopped on his jet and high-tailed to Hong Kong last night and Bruce Wayne had taken the whole Russian ballet for a quick getaway weekend.

It couldn't be true, she told herself, staring at her computer's screen; _that _could not be true, life couldn't take that kind of drastic turn just over a night. But it did, and the last six months of her life had just gone out of the window.

So she did what she always did, she readjusted her position.

* * *

When she went to see Fox in his office the following morning she was dressed how Cameron Reese would do for such an occasion. It was Ms. Reese who had come through the massive main entrance three months ago and it was still crucial, perhaps more than any time, the same Ms. Reese would leave it.

The clothes she would have preferred wouldn't do it. Six months ago, she had remade Cameron's background only for one purpose; to get her suitable to sit in the board meetings of an international corporate empire. Cameron was a cautious woman but a suitable boldness in the character was also necessary as Cameron was going to blackmail her boss. So she wore a simple white shirt and blood red high-waist wide leg pants, leaving the black pencil skirts and fitting jackets at home. She put her glasses on but instead of a professional tight bun she let the dark honey blonde hair float down over her shoulders in loose waves. She put faint yet bright nude toned eye shadow on, and the light peach lipstick gone, she went with again with red. Yes, that should do it.

Even though Fox noticed the difference in her attitude when she walked into his office, and he _must_ have done, it was hard to overlook, he didn't show it. She sat in the couch in front of his desk and crossed her legs in a way Cameron Reese would never do under normal circumstances, mostly to worry him. Fox, however, didn't even bother to lift his head from the reports he was reading. "What can I do for you, Ms. Reese?" he mumbled nonchalantly at his paper.

She smiled, and this time she didn't need to fake it through clenched jaw. "You wanted me to do diligence on the LSI Holdings deal again," she replied with a sweet tone then paused for a little dramatic effect before she concluded, "I found some irregularities."

He finally lifted his head and…that stupid smile again. "S.E.C wanted to take their CEO into the custody."

She threw at him the gentlest smile she could handle and looked directly into his eyes. "Not with their numbers, with yours. Applied Sciences," she flashed another smile, the corners of her lips edging up as she leaned forward, "a whole division of Wayne Enterprises just disappeared overnight. I went down to Archives and started pulling some old files." She leaned back again and looked at him smugly. "It's amazing what you could find through that mess," she taunted coyly, then stopped to wait for an answer.

He stared at her in silence, so she continued, shaking her head slightly. "Don't tell me you didn't recognize your baby out there, pancaking cop cars on the evening news," she scoffed with a huff, "Now you've got the entire R&amp;D Department burning through cash, claiming it's related to cell phones for the Army! What are you building for him now," she asked, her voice turning more taunting, "a rocket ship?"

At that point she had to admit her mouth overran her brain. The slip of Cameron's persona was so palpable for a moment she almost felt like she was—herself once again. And that would be a terrible, a terrible mistake. Luckily Fox didn't seem to be aware of the slip. He was still looking at her silently, eyes measuring. Not giving an inch, she held his stare defiantly.

"Ms. Reese," the older called after a while, and asked directly, "what do you want?"

Well, that was the tricky part. "I want…" she halted, letting out a sigh, "Let's not get greedy, shall we?" she asked rhetorically before she continued, "I want…a fair deal, three million dollar," she said, "and in return you'd never hear from me again."

Surprised, Fox straightened back, and looked at her as if to gauge if she was telling the truth. She could understand his lack of trust, as of the moment she shouldn't come across very trustworthy, but she had never anyways. The next moment though the same smile appeared over his lips.

She scowled. "Let me get this straight," he started, leaning over his desk toward her, "You think that your client, one of the wealthiest, most powerful men in the world is secretly a vigilante—" the man continued, as suddenly her mind drew blank. Could it be that she heard him wrong? "—who spends his nights beating criminals to a pulp with his bare hands—" She blinked once, then twice... O_h dear god!_ "—and your plan is to blackmail this person?" Satisfied by her frozen stupor, he leaned back and shook his head at her. "Well, good luck with that."

She knew a good fighter must know when to retreat and analyze the situation to find out another opportunity to strike back. She stood up and turned to leave. "Keep that as well," Fox called after her. She looked at him over her shoulder and saw the older man gesturing the plans with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"I already have copies," she hissed through her teeth.

* * *

It was becoming one of her best fuck-ups, fast.

As ridiculous as it sounded, of course it was _him_. How had she missed it before, how had she let appearances fool _her_ was beyond her. But dammit, hadn't it seemed logical. Definitely more logical than believing Bruce Wayne to be personally that rodent man instead of just banking and backing him up.

But, then again, everything really had started with Wayne's Lazarus stint, returning from his long absence doing only-God-knew what. A young man, merely a teenager who had disappeared off the face of earth the very day his parent's killer had been gunned down by the mob at the court in which he had been set free. How _could_ she have missed such a thing? She glared at the ceiling.

No, she hadn't missed it. She had assumed that that was particularly the reason for Wayne's support for the vigilante. And Bruce Wayne was the most self-absorbed, self-involved person she had ever known. She had thought of it as a grudge of rich kid, but him being personally Batman himself. How he could be that thing…it made no sense. Just a couple of days ago, he had been cruising with the whole Russian ballet. And when he had come back, Lau had also magically dropped into the custody of the police commissioner, she remembered, heaving a sigh out.

That night in her home, she continued to mull over him at great length, recalling her doubts about his mannerisms, the times she had thought if he was faking it. Some things only made sense only in retrospect, she thought grudgingly, gazing at her ceiling. But stressing over it was no use, either, especially when Fox knew she knew _it_. And truth to be told, what would have changed if she had known it before? She still would have threatened him.

Like she usually did in times of crisis, she consulted her best friend. She put the Irish whiskey on the coffee table, set a glass next to the bottle, and fixed herself a good drink.

There should still be something she could do with that information. Would blackmailing Fox and Bruce Wayne for being accomplices have been less dangerous than blackmailing the vigilante directly? No. No, it wouldn't have. Would Fox tell him what she had tried...he would, certainly. Now what would Batman do to her? Threaten her, for starters, she was sure. She was also sure he couldn't harm her in a deathly way, maybe a few bruises and such but not further. He had rules, everyone knew it. She had tried to blackmail him, yes, but as much as he knew she was an opportunistic young woman who was out of her depths. Apart from an attempt for blackmail, Cameron Reese wasn't a criminal. Moral laws, social norms and semantics could be damned for all she cared.

After the second glass of scotch, she categorized the situation as 'not that bad'.' After the third she was truly convinced he couldn't harm her fatally. By the fourth she started considering that there still might be a way to salvage the situation, and still get some money.

The following night, on T.V she saw Harvey Dent declare himself as Batman.

Yes, it was definitely getting one of her _best_ fuck-ups, she decided, staring at T.V.


	2. Part I-II

**Part I. II – Alea iacta est***

* * *

In retrospect she knew she should have left Gotham as soon as she saw Harvey Dent's face plastered on the TVs. That was what Jason had told her at her first time; _once you cross the Rubicon, kiddo, there is no going back anymore. Decide wisely. _Then he had looked at her, waiting for an answer, and wordlessly, she had decided. She had turned and walked to her first mark, and despite everything, despite how things had turned out for them she had never regretted that decision.

Most people would call it a mistake, she knew, but at least she had chosen her mistake herself, not followed the footsteps that had been set to her.

Two days after Dent's gig in the press conference she stayed still, sniffing the air, but the world didn't follow her example. Wayne and his arch-nemesis were going crazy, and they were taking all Gotham down with them. Then that fateful day came, the day she heard the news; the Joker was captured by no one other than the supposedly dead police commissioner himself. At first she felt relief, as if something, something she hadn't even known existing had lifted off her chest. Her first breath was a release, of stress, of frustration, of strain of knowing that she was stuck in a play that she even didn't know the rest of her gaming pals.

Since that time she hadn't really dwelled on the Joker much; she had never thought she needed to. She had other priorities. She had goals, had a clear objective which had also become unattainable. Six months of work, three of them wasted on in suits and impractical heels. Whenever she thought her fuck-up, the anger was returning, together with the urge of breaking something—anything, but each time she told herself, she screamed at herself, money couldn't buy everything. Like a life.

Still, it stung, so much that she could only stomach the days within the company of her old trusty friend; the bottle of scotch. She didn't show up in the work, but she understood no one was really bothered by it, Cameron Reese slipping away through the cracks of the world as silently as she had appeared, _the world_ once again overshadowing her. Every creation had a part of its creator inside, and she guessed that was what Cameron had gotten from _her_; how much she tried, how hard she worked, that part of her would always be still with her, the world would always find a way to ignore her.

She told herself to suck it up and stop complaining, because everyone knew; life is a bitch. This time she got her ass kicked, so it was time to bail out and start anew. All she had to do was to get her emergency kit and she would see what the next day would bring.

She packed her stuff; a few items that could fit into a small black backpack; the sanitary requirements, her wallet, her Glock 17, and a square metal box that she hadn't touched for years, but never had managed to throw it away, either. Putting it inside the backpack, she swore someday she was going to. Someday.

Then she went to the bed, prepared to move on at the new day.

The new day however didn't bring to her what she hoped for, instead brought only more trouble, if that was even possible.

This time she reached directly to the bottle, didn't even bother herself with glasses, she didn't see any reason for such _civilities_, not when she watched the news explaining how the fucking clown had escaped from the police custody, tagging Lau along, blowing a few places up to the skies in the meantime.

Bottling up the scotch, she kept watching the coverage, _everyone_ talking. Through the haze of the liquor, she got the gist of it; the Joker had _let_ them capture him, only to get Lau out of the cage he had gotten himself holed up, and in retaliation a junior district attorney had died while Dent had gotten the half of his face blown up.

She couldn't believe it. She just couldn't. When she had thought things were turning to normal once again they had taken a turn to worse. For a moment, for a crazy, silly moment she even thought of calling Wayne and asked him what the hell he was thinking to do about it. She didn't, of course, instead took another gulp from the scotch. The next she told herself it wasn't her problem, it wouldn't change any anything.

Truthfully it wasn't. The Joker wasn't her problem, neither Gotham for that matter. The only thing she needed to do was to take her backpack and leave, and never look back. Simple as that...

"We just need to give him what he wants!" a man's agitated voice boomed through her television, and she stopped, her eyes riveted on the screen. "Batman has to step out," the man continued with the same agitation that was fueled with fear and dismay, but the next his words turned to almost a desperate plea. "_This has to stop!_"

_This has to stop_, the words echoed in her booze-haze mind, as she stood still in her living room, sudden sly thoughts sneaking up in her consciousness, because he was right; this had to stop, and _she_ could do it, she could stop it. She could save the day.

Slowly her lips turned up into a sleek smile as she looked at the TV. She could _really_ save the day here. Her smile blossomed fully as her eyes closed, a rough laughter escaping from her throat. Under her closed eyelids, she could almost see the spotlights; the accounting clerk doing what no one would have thought, putting all this madness to a stop. That was her chance to shine; be her own character in her show, not just walk-on figure in someone else's; the world finally getting eclipsed by _her_ shadow.

Money, recognition, and everything else she had always wanted... they were just out there, and all she had to do was to reach out and take them.

So, like she did whenever she wanted something, she reached out and took it.

* * *

"GNN," the receptionist of the news channel answered automatically, "This is Melinda speaking. How may I direct your call?"

"I'd like to speak with Mr. Engels, please," she replied.

"Who is calling?"

"Someone in possession of information that will interest him," she answered without hesitation, her voice cool, but assured, time for lingering had passed.

"I am sorry," the woman intoned with a voice that not sounding sorry at all, "I can't direct anonymous calls to Mr. Engels."

She sniffed, "And someone would think of him as investigative reporter," and muttered, shaking her head then added before the receptionist could even reply, "I know who Batman is."

From the other side, Melinda though sighed heavily. "Do you know how many people have called us since this morning, all claiming they know who Batman is?"

She frowned. "Quite a lot, I presume."

"Precisely."

Ah well, that would explain the lack of enthusiasm. Apparently, she wasn't the only one who wanted spotlights. Difference, however, was that she was most probably the only one who was saying the truth. And all she needed to do now was to convince Melinda of that fact.

"Look, Melinda," so she started, throwing herself on her armchair, and deciding to tell her the truth, as odd as it was sounding, the truth was the only thing she was offering today, "If you hang up on me, I'll call AP, if they do the same thing, then I'll call another agency until I find someone who will listen to me. Then, my dear, you will be known as the girl who lost the biggest break-through in our decade for the rest of your life," she concluded with a shrug, "It's your call."

The receptionist stayed silent for a while then said, "I'll check if Mr. Engels is available."

She nodded, smiling at the phone, "Smart girl."

After then it took just an hour to sit in front of Engels, freshen up, no trace of worries from the earlier night. The man was eyeing her, carefully, as if to come to a decision about her. "So," she decided to make his life easier, "When are we doing this?"

"I don't know," he answered, his words measured in slowness, as his hand caressed his chin, "Are you really up for this?" he asked her, his hand still over his chin, "Things would turn bad."

She shook her head. No, she couldn't wait; she just needed to get over it. "Well," she said in return with the same slowness, "I suppose we could, but I'm not sure if Gotham would."

"Ah, Gotham," the man repeated, leaning forward over his desk.

She nodded, "Yes," she shot back coldly, "We're doing this for her after all, aren't we?"

Engels gave her a tight lipped smile. "Of course," he cooed, "and that _bonus_ you've just asked—"

"—is just a slight benefit," cutting off his words, she concluded for him, then paused for a second, her eyebrows pulling into a faint scowl, "speaking of which," she added, "I want it to be wired to a Swiss bank account I'll provide; half now, half after the show."

"My, you're cautious," the TV host murmured.

_Cameron_ shrugged, "I'm a lawyer."

"So you'd understand if I ask you to sign a good faith claim," he retorted.

Her eyes sharpened as if she was insulted, but in reality she wasn't surprised, she might have if he hadn't asked something like that. "Mr. Engels," she protested lightly, "I assure you I'm only here in _bona fide_."

"I don't doubt that."

"So—what's the problem?"

He shrugged indifferently, "I don't trust people much."

She looked back at him straight in the eyes. "That's not my problem."

After her last retort, Engels started smiling again. "You aren't going to tell me who he's, are you?"

She shook her head. "You know I can't do that."

"And you know I _can't_ pay you any money before your scoop is checked," he shot back. "Hell, I even shouldn't put you at the show before checking the info myself."

"And how'd I know that you'll honor your word?" she asked tersely, "would you sign a good faith claim yourself?"

He shook his head back at her, almost apologetically. "I guess we just have to trust each other," he said, his tone displeased, then recited almost he was on the stage, "Trust is a two-way street, Ms. Reese."

She looked at him, weighing the words. If it had been any other time, this would have been the moment she would raise the game to another level, starting to strike below the belt, but this wasn't her, it was Cameron, and Engels wasn't one of her marks. Still looking at the man, she nodded. "All right, Mr. Engels, let's do it in your way," she said, standing up, and offered her hand to him, "I believe we both are gonna be honorable." In a perfect world that would have been enough, but it wasn't a perfect world. And even if it had been, they still wouldn't be perfect people.

So she held his hand tight in her grasp, and smiled at the man. Cameron perhaps wouldn't go directly below the belt, but she could always play dirty. "But if you won't—" she paused for a fraction of second, her smile dropping, her eyes finding his, "Then I'll go to 'Times and tell them quite entertaining stories about you. And I guarantee you unlike this time they won't be all true." Her eyes fell down, toward their tangled hands and fixed on the gold band around his ring finger. "You're married, Mr. Engels, aren't you?"

And yes, he was married, married to one of his show's producers, she had searched. Because trust wasn't a two-way street, but was a dead-end that would end you up with a bullet in your back.

* * *

From the camera's small screen, she decided that she looked rather good under the spotlights. She had been frequenting the boldness she had created in Cameron's persona since her visit to Fox, and she realized that kind of daring suited Cameron as good as the pencil skirts and jackets she fitted herself in. All things considered, she was starting to like _being_ Cameron.

The assistant started to count down from five. Lifting his head from his notes, Engels gave her again a measuring look with heavy eyes. _Five, four..._ "Ok, prepare yourself," he warned, "I'll have callers." _Three..._

_..Two..._ She gave him a smile. "I'm always prepared, Mr. Engels." _One…On air..., _the assistant voice echoed in the studio.

"All right—" Engels barked out simultaneously, possibly more to her than Gotham, "—Gotham, we're back. And, look, we already got a call."

A crispy voice heard into studio. "I wanna know how much they're gonna pay you to say who Batman really is."

Ah…first call bringing the love already… "That's not why I'm doing this," she answered directly to camera, shaking her head, "Batman did us good, and I'm sure we're all grateful for that, but since he's showed up, things have only gotten worse." She paused for a second, and intoned what the man in TV had said, "This has to stop."

Engels interrupted the call after then, and took a second. "Caller, you're on air."

"Harvey Dent didn't want us to give in to this maniac—you think you know better than him?"

She wanted to let out a sniff but held her posture placidly. Yeah, Dent hadn't wanted to give in and in return he got his face ruined and his lady love blown up to smithereens. But Engels also decided to play dirty. "You know, guy's got a point." She snapped her head at him, suppressing the urge to narrow her eyes. "Harvey Dent didn't want Batman to give in. Is this the right thing to do?"

She gave him a small tense smile and tried to look heavy-hearted, and rueful. "If we _could_ talk to him now, he might feel differently—"

"And we wish him a speedy recovery. God knows we need him now more than ever," he interrupted her flatly as she momentarily entertained herself with very vivid, very colorful images what to do with him once this was over. "We have another call."

Even before his words finished, the greasy voice of an old woman filled the studio. "Miss Reese, what's more valuable: one life or a hundred?"

Taken aback, she straightened and looked at to the cameras, a slight frown deepening the crease between her eyebrows. "I guess…that depends…whose life are we talking about?"

"Let's assume it's yours. Is it worth more than the lives of several hundreds of others?"

Her gaze skipped toward Engels, "Is this a trick question?"

"No," the woman answered flatly. "Is it worth more?"

She shook her head in seriousness, "Of course not."

"I'm so glad you feel that way," the woman said, sighing loudly, "Because I've got a bomb in one of the city's hospitals. It's going off in sixty minutes unless someone kills you."

Her eyes narrowing, as her frown tightening further, she looked around. "Is this some sort of joke?"

A high pitched laugh burst into the studio. "Joke's on you."

"Who is this?" Engels asked finally, getting out of his stupor.

"Just a concerned citizen—" the feminine voice dropped into a very familiar pitch, "—and a regular guy," and she could recognize that voice from everywhere, much like everyone in Gotham in these days. She stared at the camera, quite not believing this was happening. It couldn't be _him_. "I had a dream, Miss Reese," the dramatic voice intoned, "Of a world without Batman. Mob ground out a little profit and the police tried to shut them down, one block a time—and it was so…" the words halted, as if he was trying to find a suitable word, "_...boring."_

_Oh, fuck_. She closed her eyes for a second. "I've had a change of heart," the Joker declared with all the dramatics of his character, pitched voice reaching to above the skies, "I don't want Miss Reese spoiling everything, but why should I have all fun? Let's give someone else a chance—"

God, she thought.

"If Cameron Reese isn't dead in sixty minutes, then I'll blow up a hospital," he paused just for a millisecond, "Of course, you could always kill yourself, but that'd be noble. And you're a lawyer."

_God!_

She had never been much of a God person, among other things, Cathleen had seen that too, but she still couldn't simply think past that word, her eyes riveted on the camera. She understood the live feed had been cut as soon as after the Joker had spoken last words as the red light over the tripods suddenly faded off. This must be a joke, a cruel, not funny joke, but a joke nevertheless. He _couldn't_ ask people to kill her to save other, _injured_, people. Fuck, what was it? A social experiment to see how Gotham would react? For god sake, she was going to be the hero of the story, not the goddamn damsel in distress.

Not for the first time since she had come to Gotham, she asked herself how she had gotten into this mess. Unfortunately for that she had no one other than herself to blame. She had brought this on herself. She had fallen into the oldest trap in the book; she had let her pride and greed get the best of her. She should have known better, she should have definitely known better; pride and greed were the things that she used the most against her own marks.

All right, what happened, happened; no point on stressing over it now, especially when she was more in a deep shit. _Think!_ She ordered herself, think!

_Run._ Expectedly, it was her first reaction. But to where?

No.

_Analyze the situation, find some back up._

That was the problem. Who could help her now? Police…? It was better to close eyes and ask for a miracle; and probably more effective too. No, the police couldn't help her. The Joker was going to play with them like a cat with a mouse. And that was what she had reduced to in the game; a mouse…a pitiful mouse. She shook her head, letting out a bitter smile. No one was going to cross the Joker for her, no one. All in frankness, she could see only one person who would _dare_ to help her against the Joker. The man she had blackmailed, the man she had just tried to expose to the public. For all she knew, Bruce Wayne might just send a fruit basket to the Joker when she was finished.

Her eyes started burning but she wasn't sure if it was because of anger or desperation. As soon as the thought entered into her mind, something in her snapped. Desperation! _Hell no._ She had gotten herself out of worse situations. She could do it again. At least she should stop sitting on her ass in self-pity. That would be quite a start. It was only then, pulling herself out of shock, worry, and momentary self-pity, she realized that everything around her was in chaos.

Once a small room with a handful number of crew now the studio was full of people, still pouring in from other studios in the building. She stood up and walked to Engels.

"You need to get the hell out of here!" the man told her, taking a hold of her elbow, and starting to drag her toward exit. She pulled her arm out of his grip.

His assistant came toward her, running. "Ms. Reese. It's for you. The commissioner..."

She took a deep breath and braced herself. "Ca-Cameron Reese." She had tried to sound even, but much to her chagrin, her voice faltered.

"This is Commissioner Gordon. Stay put and do not go anywhere. We'll come to get you."

The order was uttered in a precise way that soothed her frayed nerves. It was good to hear someone sounding in control, even though she knew he wasn't in the control of the situation. But, still, it helped. "No," she objected, her voice clearing, "There is a lot of people around here, and they keep coming," she talked fast, looking around, adrenaline starting rushing in her veins. Good. That was what she needed, action. "I'm getting out."

"No. Stay put. We've already sealed the doors."

"Is this your phone?"

"Yes…"

"I'll call you later." With a flick of her wrist, she closed the phone.

Her face set, she started walking with a decisive pace. "Where are you going?" Engels called after her.

"Out."

The phone rang but she didn't answer. Coming out in a large corridor, she blended in the crowd that was rushing out of the building, walking along the wall as fast as the pencil skirt and high heels let her, her head bowed. She wondered how many of these people had friends, family, or acquaintances that were in hospitals, and thought how much they would be panicked now, enough to give a try to the Joker's proposal.

She needed to get out of here. She was too vulnerable inside, sitting ducks. If only she knew the back exits. _Fire emergency action plans!_ The thought flashed in her mind, her brain running wild. The fire deposits must be storing the emergency exits for the evacuations. Lifting her head, she looked for a fire box and saw the red metal casket at the end of the hall. Quickly, she ran to it and opened the box. There it was, under the hosepipe and axe. She took the poster, and turned back to the corridor to spot toilets to look at the plans.

The phone rang again. This time she opened, "Yes."

"Where are you?" the commissioner asked.

"Second floor, the left corridor," she answered tersely, "Where are _you_?"

"Stay put. We're coming for you."

She saw the WC sign and threw herself into the restroom on her left. She locked the door behind her, tugging the phone between her ear and shoulder. "I entered the restroom," she informed him, opening the folded poster over the washstand, "The hall's too crowded. Can't you run them off?"

"Don't—have time," the commissioner's voice came out haltingly and she could hear voices in the background.

"Second floor, left corridor, women's restroom," she repeated, her eyes already studying the exit plan.

* * *

The closest back exit was the service entrance at the left wing of the building, four corridors away from her position. She quickly calculated the route, memorizing the halls in the vicinity for any surprises. GNN's Tower was one of those skyscrapers that had been built in the last decade, so it had all the necessary bits of the new age; service landings, staircases, and a lift, together with fire exits. She saw there was an old open cage lift outside the building at the East front, to clean the floor length windows. If the back exits became out of question, she would take a hike down to the ground in open air, too. Nodding at herself, she memorized the location of the open platform lift, her action plan forming in her mind. First, wait for the police, try to get out of here under their protection, the commissioner should be around here in any moment, but if things got more—heated, she would take the matters in her hands.

As if the commissioner heard her thoughts, she noticed voices outside of the toilet, and few seconds later, the door broke, revealing the man she had only seen a few glimpses on her TV screen in front of his task force, fully geared.

"There you are—" he walked to her hurriedly, "We—" his words suddenly stopped as his eyes fell over the fire escape plans. "What's this?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

She looked at him funnily. "Fire escape plans," she answered, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I was spotting the back exits," she explained, then asked before he could even reply, "Do you have a plan to get me out of here?" she questioned.

"We sealed the doors and my people are evacuating the building," he answered her inquiry, his eyes narrowing further, "We're taking you out of this service entrance." His finger pointed the entrance that was closest to them.

Inwardly, she smiled. Of course. Great minds think alike, after all. Outwardly, she only nodded, throwing her shoes off. Running barefoot in Gotham streets wasn't fun, but it was better than trying to run in five inches stilettoes. Gordon looked at her again in that funny way, she shrugged. "I can't run in these," she said, bending to gather her shoes, because she was _not_ going to leave a Louboutin Pigalle behind, no matter what.

The shoes dangling at the end of her fingers, she looked at the man again, in waiting for his command. The Commissioner turned aside and barked out a quick order to check the hall, then a few seconds later, they moved out.

For a moment, walking fast along their hastened pace, she thought of tearing the pencil skirts as well at sides, the tight hem wasn't leaving her enough space to quicken her pace, but after a brief consideration, she forsook the idea.

Walking in the midst of the wall that they had built around her with their bodies, she realized she didn't seem enough _out-of-mind_ as the situation might demand for someone in her place. She could hardly blame them for suspicion, though, because back there even she herself had forgotten that a corporate lawyer was dealing with the situation.

_Fuck it!_ She needed to get herself away of these people; this really had become her best fuck-up. She needed to leave Gotham. She needed to retrieve her stash and bailed, this had completely gone south. The problem was that she wasn't exactly sure how. Four years ago, she had come to America for a change of scenery and her reasons for wanting a change hadn't _changed_ a lot since then. Dammit, this could have been her end-game. Perhaps she could have even built herself a life here in Gotham, she had even started to get a liking to Cameron; the woman was a tad boring at first, but she had grown more.

Well, no more of that. Once again she was where she usually found herself; hanging up out, cold and dry. They dragged her out of the building through the service entrance as her thoughts turned even more pessimistic at the first glance to the outside.

The crowd, yelling, screaming, trying to get to her; it seemed they weren't the only ones that were quick on their feet. She looked at them almost stupefied, like it was a scene from a second-rate zombie movie rather than a scene from a city at the top of the civilization. There was something primal amongst them, the fear of death and doom, savored in every cry for her head, treading over a razor shape edge, but not crossing the line.

Then someone in the crowd did. A rifle fired. She turned toward the sound on reflex, and saw a man, a man that in other times she could have thought nice, was shooting at her. A police officer jumped on him before he could get off the second round. Gordon pulled her tighter to his side as he opened the back door of the van that was waiting outside. He shoved her inside.

"He tried to shoot me," she muttered, even though she knew how it was going to be when she was out. She knew they would take the Joker's words serious, the maniac appeared to be many things, but a lair he wasn't.

"Well, maybe Batman can save you," the Commissioner sneered back, and irony wasn't lost on her.

* * *

Once she was in the van, she had thought it had finished, she was in safety, but looking at the police officer, whose hands were shaking terribly, she realized she had been wrong. It had _just_ begun.

Her eyes skipped toward the commissioner, as the man read the second message he had just received. She pulled the shoes over her lap closer. Even without reading the message, she knew it was bad news. "Son," Gordon started, as she grabbed the sharp heel of her shoe, "I'm going to have to ask for your weapon—" Gordon made a move to reach for the gun but the younger man pointed it at her face. She tightened her fingers around the heel, quickly calculating a way to disarm him as harmless as possible in such close proximity while he had a rifle, praying Gordon would talk some sense into him in the meanwhile.

She was short on luck today though. "Why," he asked, his voice sounding at the border of breakdown, his grip on metal shaking, "because I've got a wife in the hospital?"

"Yes—"

_All right!_ That was it. She straightened her back, readying her body to leap upon the man, but Gordon beat her to it, finally making his move, but he was too late. The young man had already pulled the trigger as the same time Gordon grabbed the rifle. He raised the barrel up as she ducked, throwing herself to right side. She shook her head, her mind suddenly drawing a blank, as pain erupted around in her left shoulder. She lifted her head and saw that the bullet scratched her upper arm then from the window that was leveled just above her eyes she saw a car, a massive SUV approaching them at top speed, as Gordon and the young patrol man fought in the car for dominance.

Then at that moment she got it. She was not going to make out of this. Not this time.

Admitting defeat, she closed her eyes, and waited for the end come—

—Crash! The impact threw her to the ground.

A few seconds later, pinned under the commissioner, she realized the man was asking her something. "Are you all right?" she registered it the second time.

She stared at him blankly but he seemed to take her lack of response affirmative because he opened the door and pulled himself and the young officer out with him. Alone, she poked out her head from the corner of the door and started to get things into the perspective. In a millisecond another car had dived between them, preventing the van being pancaked by the SUV.

Clutching her arm, she got out, too, and looked at the other car; a silver Lamborghini totaled with the impact of the crash. Daunted and confused, she turned to left, moving lingeringly as if world was in slow motion, and crouching beside the car, barely a few feet away from her, she saw _Him_.

Leaned back at his ruined door, he looked uncharacteristically bedraggled, clothes disheveled, hair unkempt, though his face was undeniably the same; the dazzled expression as he stared at the world at such a loss with a boyish charm. Then he lifted his head, and he saw her, _too_.

Something shifted in his expression and what she saw wasn't the same man anymore. All sounds around her went silent as he looked at her, world skidding to a halt, time taking a pause. Stuck for an unnamable time, unable to turn her eyes away, unable to move an inch, she did the same.

She looked back.

* * *

_*The die is cast for Latin._


	3. Part I-III

**Part I. III – The woman who had never been there**

* * *

_September, 2008_

_It's the same dream every night, in every sleep, him lost in the darkness, lying on his mattress, legs hanging over the side of the bed, bare feet chilled on the cold tiles, eyes fixed above, waiting. And every night she comes, smiling, and each time light follows her; she pulls the sheet over them, the dark sheets turn to white and there is light, more light. "I love you," he whispers as her fingertips run along his features, her touch even colder against his cold skin. When she cries her tears freeze._

_He misses her every day, every night, every hour, every second, every instant…_

It was the deep clank from his phone that had pulled him out of the land of dreams. Bruce straightened in his seat, his hands gripping the rests of his chair in the bunker. He rubbed a hand over his tired eyes, chasing the remnants of the ominous dream away; even the whiteness of the bunker was gloomy after the brightness in his dream. It was the same dream whenever his overridden mind let his battered body to close itself even for a moment, but there was no reprise for him anymore, not even in his sleep. Though, he wasn't complaining, no, he could at least see Rachel...

Chasing the last thought, he reached out to the phone, a frown appearing above his eyebrows. There had been only one person who ever sent him messages through this line, and Gordon wasn't doing that anymore. Though, apparently, this time the commissioner had made an exception. "We need to talk," Bruce read the message, "There's an emergency."

He read the message again, a feeling of anticipating started running wild in his blood. All he needed was a reason, and Gordon had just given it to him.

The days now were always the same, going on forever in an endless repetitive routine; working out to get back into the shape, controlling his wounds, fixing the brace on his leg; preparing his body for Batman's eventual reappearance, all while having discussions with Alfred how dangerous it was to return to where he belonged the most. Two weeks had passed since he had left the clown hanging out in the air upside down, but sometimes it felt like an eon had passed, and sometimes it felt like just a second had passed, and there was little difference between them.

_Plus ça change_, Bruce thought, how much things change, they become the same. In a manner of speaking, nothing had changed; he was still at the beginning, that little child in that alley whose world had just ended.

Grimacing, he put the phone on the counter, and went to prepare to go out. The bracelet was the hardest part. As long as he was tied to it, there was no hope for him doing what he needed to do. The Dent Act was still intact, but Gordon would still need help. He tightened the leg bracelet, biting his lips against pain as the metal cage surrounded his bones with a crack. He knew his body needed rest, two weeks weren't enough to heal a gunshot wound and a deadly fall, but even though his world was in statis, the world outside was going on. So he should too, that was the only reason he would keep fighting anymore; if he had stopped now, he knew he might never have started again.

Alfred walked in the bunker a few moments later, a dinner plate in his head. He stopped in tracks, looking at his armored figure. "Master Bruce," Alfred said wearily, setting the tray over a counter, "Master Bruce," he repeated, walking to him, "You can't. It's still too early. You _must_ rest."

Bruce shook his head. He would rest when he was dead. "Gordon sent me a message," he said aloud, as he had a feeling if he had voiced his last thought out, Alfred might have locked him in the bunker, "He says there's an emergency, I need to see him."

The news of course made Alfred even more worried. "Master Bruce, meeting with the Commissioner is reckless under these conditions," he objected, "If the police see you—"

Shaking his head again, Bruce interrupted the rest of the words, "They won't—" He twisted aside and entered a few commands into his computer station, and a digital Gotham map appeared on the divided screens, a cluster of green dots moving over it, as a red dot stayed stationed above at the north.

"What's this?" Alfred asked, squinting at the screens.

"Every police officer in the city," he said simply, "I built a software from the sonar technology to trace their cell phones. It transfers the real time data to the map." He pointed at the map at the screen.

"That's why Wayne Foundation made that donation to the force last week?" Alfred questioned, his eyes growing heavier. He had had Fox to donate some money for technologic equipment to track the cell phones, Wayne Foundation stepping forth to get his city better. The Commissioner and the Mayor had accepted. They were all aiming the same thing; getting Gotham better.

It wouldn't mean though they weren't going to be other much needed benefits. "I need to keep track of them," he said with a shrug.

Alfred shook his head in weariness. "Master Bruce, you possibly couldn't think of going out regularly before all things settle down, could you?"

Alfred had asked the question, but Bruce knew the older man already was aware of his answer, in his weariness there was also the answer. He took the cowl from the fiber-glass cabin. "What else do I have to do, Alfred?" Alfred opened his mouth, but he cut him off, raising his arms to put the cowl on, "Monitor the trackers, Alfred, I need to know where they're when I'm out."

In the whiteness of the bunker, Alfred gave him a defeated look, and he wished the gloom of the cave, where most things would hide in the shadows. He had missed his home. "Alfred," he called, halting on his steps before he reached to the Batpod, "Double up the construction of the manor," he ordered, "We need to return to home."

* * *

He hadn't seen Gordon after that night. The Commissioner had prepared a wake for Dent but Bruce hadn't gone to the memorial. He hadn't gone to Rachel's grave, either. Basically, he hadn't gone to anywhere other than his bunker in the last two weeks, only one objection in his mind; to get back out of his city, in whatever capacity.

The late summer heat was suffocating in the armored suit, but Bruce realized he had missed the heat, and he had missed the feel of the breeze at the rooftops, too. As he stood still on a metal flag landing, listening to his city, he understood he had missed the most the tranquility up above here, where everything was in silence under a modicum of peace, the filth of the grounds miles away. It was a false pretense, of course, the filth and conflict was still there, but from here, it was easier to pretend.

His head lifted and his eyes automatically searched for the Bat Signal, but of course, it wasn't there, not anymore. Bowing his head, he jumped from the landing, and dived into the dark sky.

Gordon was already waiting for him at the rooftop of Cabbies in down town; a pub usually retired police officers frequented. He knew Gordon drunk together with his former co-workers there every Monday, so the alibi was good enough not to draw some unwanted attention.

He approached him from behind, and called the commissioner like in old times, "Gordon."

The older man turned around, his legs steady. He had gotten accustomed to Batman's gig even with two weeks interlude. Gordon gave him a look, eyes measuring, clearly checking him out. "How are you?" he then asked, question sounding strange coming from him.

Bruce didn't answer because he didn't know how to answer, especially to Gordon. "What's the emergency?" he instead asked back.

Gordon had been always quick to understand. Giving him another measuring look, he didn't press further. "Something happened last night," he said, "And you need to know it."

"What happened?" Bruce whispered out roughly, his voice lowering in Batman's distinctive rasp on its own account.

"Cameron Reese," Gordon answered, letting out a sigh, "She—she escaped from the safe house we put her last night."

It took a second to digest the news, as in his mind an image of her flashed suddenly, as she looked at him, almost bewildered, battered in her distraught suit, barefoot, her shoulder bleeding slowly. He wanted to shake his head in frustration. The woman had been nothing but a pain in the ass since the day she had started working for Wayne Enterprises. At first, she had been nagging Fox nonstop about the deal with LSI Holdings, consequently making Fox nag him, then she had managed to find the drawings of the Tumbler. How, he had no idea. He had stored away the drawings pretty good, so she must have been looking for a specific thing, but what he had no idea, too. Even that fact alone was troublesome, but what she had done afterward had been even worse. "How," he rasped out, his voice dropping even further as his anger raised more.

Gordon let out another sigh, almost baffled. "She—uh—knocked out the police officer we set to monitor her," he explained. Under his cowl, Bruce's eyebrow raised. Gordon shook his head, almost at himself, then pulled out a flash drive of his jacket's pocket. The recording from the security camera," he said, handing him the drive, "Look at it yourself." He paused for a second, his eyes turning away, "There—there is something with this woman."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know," Gordon replied, "It's just—" He shook his head again. "The way she acted in the GNN building," he started again, "She secured herself in the toilet, while spotting the back exits of the building over a fire escape plan."

"Fire escape plan?" Bruce couldn't help but ask.

"Yeah," Gordon asserted, "She took it from a fire deposit." He understood what Gordon was trying to say. People reacted differently under duress, but a regular person usually did what his first impulse told him to do, whether it was flight or fight; but calculative moves took experience and training more than basic instincts. The commissioner continued, "When we found her, she took her heels out, that's logical, given the situation, but the way she held onto them in the car, just before Berg shot at her...Her fingers were tightened around the heel like she was holding a weapon." He paused for a second. "If I didn't make a move at Berg, she was going to do herself, I'm sure of it." He looked at him again. "There is something with her," Gordon repeated, his voice turning a notch deeper, "I'll put the search for her at minimum, but you need to do something about it yourself."

"I'll look into her," he affirmed, then asked, "Did she say anything different after her first interrogation?"

"No," Gordon answered, "At every interrogation she claimed the same. That she lied for the spotlights," Halting, Gordon gave him a look, as if he was trying to gauge _Batman's_ reaction. After the brief pause, he continued, "She also refused to give away whose name she was going to give away if the Joker hadn't interrupted her show." He looked at him again, his eyes still searching his behind the cowl. "Is it true?" Gordon then finally asked, "Does she really know?"

He looked at Gordon, her image appearing in his mind again, as Gordon tugged her in another van after the crash, her eyes still couldn't leave him, her neck craned aside to look at him. "Leave her to me," he told to Gordon, "I'll deal with her."

* * *

He spent the rest of the week looking after her trail. He had printed a shot of her from the GCC stream and plastered it over a glass board close to his work station in the bunker, each day adding another tidbit around the photo. Most of them were irrelevant, his research not shedding any light over the mystery. But Gordon was right; there was something with her.

She was a born and bred New Yorker, a corporate lawyer still registered to New York State Bar Assoc. even after she had moved to Gotham six months ago after the stock market crisis. She had graduated from Harvard in 2002 then returned to her home town two years after her graduation, approximately four years ago, and had been working there since then as freelancer before she lost all of her biggest clients in the wake of the fall of Wall Street. Hence, her move to Gotham, looking greener pastures. There was nothing incriminating in her resume, but he still felt like something was amiss with all of it. It seemed like her life had started after she had returned to New York from Boston four years ago, all of her existence until then was only a birth certificate, like she hadn't ever been there.

Her life in Gotham was the same, too. He had gotten Fox gather information through her co-workers in the Wayne Tower, but no one seemed to know her besides being diligent, precise, but always reserved. She had never shared any drink with any of her colleagues after long hours of work, neither any office romance that everyone knew but pretended not to. She had only done what she was asked, behaving always professional, brought little problem, no juice for the grapevines; that was it of course until one day she showed up in the GNN live coverage, claiming she knew who Batman was. Most of her co-workers didn't even believe that it had been her, the others claimed she had lost her mind under the pressure, but the point was until that point it was like she hadn't been there, either.

The last thought suddenly had his back straighten rigidly, as he stood still in the bunker, looking at her photo over glass board. His eyes narrowing, he quickly marched to the computer hub and played again the feed Gordon had given to him. He fast forwarded the video then stopped at the moment she had taken the young officer out.

Bruce had also seen the young officer's deposition. The young man was claiming she had seemed like any other perturbed honest woman who had made a grievous mistake, worried and scared but Bruce had heard the stupefied tone in his voice and had seen the faint blush over his cheeks as he had talked about her being _lovely_.

The fact was clear, the officer had been comprised. She had coaxed him, knocked him out then escaped. That seemed like a thing a woman who had thought about fire escape plans while surrounded by a mob that was out to lynch her would think, but the way she did it was even more troubling.

He restarted the video, and played the scene. On the screen, she followed the officer Jones, a reassuring smile over her lips as the other went to the kitchen. Bruce couldn't make out the words, as there wasn't sound in the feed, and he couldn't read lips, yet, but their body language was clear. She was flirting with him, not too exaggeratedly, but the subtle moves were enough to get the young officer to look at her with that stupefied expression. He wasn't very surprised of that part; she was an attractive woman, and the officer was a young boy who was probably just out of the Academy. Three different officers had been assigned to her position, and of course she had chosen the young Jones.

On the screen, she drew to Jones, still smiling. The man turned aside, pulling a cup from the drawer and stated preparing the coffee. Then suddenly her expression...altered. The smile dropped off her lips then with a deft move she was on Jones from the rear, the crook of her right arm on his shoulder, the rest of it coiled around his neck, as her other arm secured the office over his left shoulder.

The officer made an attempt to clear off, but she quickly overpowered him, squeezing her arm around his carotid artery further, cutting off the blood supply. The officer tried to resist but his resistance was futile. A few seconds later, he was out. Shaking his head, he rewound and watched the moment again.

Gordon was right; the way she acted... Her moves weren't precise, but he must be blind not to recognize the Rear Naked Choke from Krav Maga. She had training; her technique wasn't first-rate, but it was effective enough. But that even wasn't what was troubling him, not really. Most women in Gotham had already started taking self-defense classes, adapting into the cruelty of Gotham's daily life, but what was troubling was that how she had done it, without blinking an eye.

On the screen, she bent over the officer that she had choked out and coolly checked his pockets. She found his wallet, and pocketed the money inside, her eyes tossing a side-glance at the security cameras. Then she stood up, and left the safe door, her pace steady, almost stalking.

Bruce hadn't any idea about who she was, but he knew who she wasn't; she wasn't _just_ a lawyer.

* * *

Sometimes Alfred felt like Bruce Wayne was now living with the ghosts of two women; one who wasn't here anymore, and another who had never been here before.

Though, the woman's presence was everywhere, in every inch of the bunker, a whole board specifically designed for her highness, little notes, photos, the documents Bruce had gathered, all pinned to each other, in the hopes that he would figure it out.

Alfred knew what the younger man was doing, he had done it before, he had done it before for _ten_ years; going after something that he had convinced himself he needed to, just because he didn't want to accept the truth that he had lost the woman he had loved, much like how he could have never truly accepted his parent's death. Alfred hadn't still managed to get him to the Rachel's grave, and he was losing his hopes if he would ever, too.

At least, the woman had managed to keep his mind off the idea of going outside, busying him with her rather mysterious personality. Alfred knew it was just an interim. Soon his wounds were going to heal then nothing, no one, even the woman herself would keep him inside. Judging by these days, Alfred had an inkling how _those_ days were going to, when Batman finally got free...his unhinged anger and grief unleashed... He pressed down a shudder, feeling quite content for the distraction. That inevitable moment would wait for a little while.

He approached the computer hub as Bruce hunched over his work station, looking clues. "Any progress, sir?" Alfred asked, eyeing the New York Public Health Service official web-site.

"I think I'm getting to something, Alfred," his former foster son answered, lifting his head to him, "I copied her hard drive at Wayne Tower. She had been looking into LSI Holdings...more closely than necessary."

"Hmm," Alfred said in response, "That doesn't explain how she found about you, Master Bruce."

The younger man frowned. "I'll ask her that when I get her, Alfred."

Alfred raised an eyebrow, then his eyes skipped toward the computer screens again, "PHS?" he asked.

Bruce's eyes followed his too, as he shook his head, in thoughts. "The facts aren't adding up, Alfred," he commented sotto voice, "I'm...certain she's a con-artist, but she has no criminal record, which can't be true in her line of work."

Alfred gave him a look. "Perhaps she isn't one, sir," he pointed out.

Bruce shook his head in objection. "Do you think a regular lawyer would pull off what she has done so far?" he asked, but went on before Alfred even could open his mouth, "There is literally no trace of her, Alfred. No bills, no credit cards, no digital imprint, not even an e-mail account. Do you know how hard that's in this age? It's like virtually she doesn't live," he continued, "and it isn't even the first time. Look at these," he pulled out some files on the screen, "These are from her times in New York before she moved to Gotham but they only go back four years...before that, there was nothing, nothing that would suggest of her existence, other than some basic registrations." He pointed at the Harvard's alumni, "She was there, but she wasn't there, either."

"Do you think she's a fraud, too?" Alfred asked, finally getting to the younger man's point, "All of them are fabricated."

"No," he objected, shaking his head again, "No, you can't fabricate someone from nothing," he said, pulling a birth certificate. Leaning down, Alfred read the name over it. "Cameron Reese _existed_ in some point."

Alfred pointed at the certificate, "But you're not sure if it's the same Cameron we have." Bruce gave him a silent look, affirming his suspicion. Alfred let out a sigh. "An identity thief," he announced, his eyes skidding toward the PHS's database, "you think she's stolen the real Cameron Reese."

Bruce nodded. Alfred sighed again, just when he had thought their life couldn't get any more complicated. "Master Wayne, how do you think you'll find her?" he asked.

"I gathered fingerprints from her former office, but the prints had already mixed with other hundreds. I'm looking in NYPD and FBI's databases, too, but nothing so far," the younger man explained then pausing, he shook his head. "There must be something I'm missing, Alfred," he went on, "No one could vanish off from the face of earth with no trace behind." His head turned and his eyes bore through her photo, "I just need to look harder." Looking at the photo, he heaved out a small sigh, and muttered slowly, "I should feel a bit relieved she at least felt this time enough gratitude to keep away who I'm from the police."

Alfred frowned, his eyes turning stern. "Gratitude?"

Bruce turned to him, but the look the younger man gave him didn't make Alfred relieved, not a bit. "She didn't give away my secret, Alfred," he said in a low voice, "She told Gordon she'd lied. Without that deposition, Gordon would have never backed off the investigation on her."

Alfred shook his head. "Don't mistake survival instincts for genuine gratitude, Master Bruce," he warned, "She did that for her own benefit, just like how she tried to blackmail you or tried to expose you on live TV," he pressed further mercilessly, "She did all of those because they suit her interest better. And what would happen if she decides it suits her interests better to sell you out?"

A frown pulled up his eyebrows, his jaw clenching, and he gave him a look, heated enough to melt the stone, "It won't come to that," he rasped out, his voice edged, "I'll find her before she does something stupid again."

But he couldn't, Bruce Wayne couldn't find her in the next five months. He had found the real Cameron Reese, born in New York in 1979 and died three days after her birth because of eclampsia. He had found out her registration to the court had been done four years ago in the means of hacking into federal databases, in the same way her entry to the Harvard Almanac and NYSBA. All those scopes had led to a dead end, leaving him empty-handed, because Alfred understood you couldn't find a woman who had never been there. No, because, that woman only could find _you_.

* * *

_January, 2009_

The dawn had just broken when the phone rang, a voice ominous, a fair warning for the shape of the things to come. "Hello?" Alfred opened it.

"Mr. Pennyworth," a female voice said, trembling slightly. Alfred closed his eyes. He had never heard her voice, not really, but he still recognized it. Parent intuition perhaps. "I need to talk with Mr. Wayne."

For a while, there was no sound from him then he asked, because it seemed somehow appropriate, "Who is calling?"

And she answered, "Cameron Reese."


	4. Part II-I

**PART II**

**Part II. I – The Call**

* * *

_January, 2009_

The small bedroom was on the second floor of the pub looking out on the alley below, and Valerie had to sleep with the windows closed or else she would smell garbage the whole night. Like every day, she got dressed, pulled her hair up in ponytail and added a little make up, just enough to soften her features. Climbing down from the staircase, she told herself that she had done harder things than tending a bar, and the pep talk wasn't the first time.

Johnny's was already crowded, and its crowd was already drunk. Admittedly, the usual crowd of the Irish pub had never needed an excuse to get blind drunk, but today they seemed to be more determined on that goal than ever. If there was one thing consistent about these people, Valerie had come to admit, it was that they liked their drink. The jukebox in the corner of the room was on, playing some country music but it was half broken, out of tune with a static underline, but by the look of the people and the way they were swaying on their heels, no one really cared.

God, last night had been like hell, and tonight, she knew, was only going to be worse.

Mike, the young bouncer, greeted her with a cheerful 'hey'. She threw a smile at him and went behind the bar. She fixed a drink for a possible dealer then for a girl who was probably under eighteen. She didn't ask for identification, Johnny's wasn't one of those kinds of places, as it was also the main reason she was behind the bar. No one asked nosy questions around here.

She turned to her third customer. "What'll it be?"

"Hello," the young man answered, leaning forward.

"Hello yourself. What'll it be?"

"Can't we talk first?"

She sighed. It was really going to be one of _those _nights. "Of course," she said tersely. "You're not ordering, I'm not pouring, and you're not drinking. We are," she glared at him, "talking."

The young man didn't look like affected by her jab. Instead, he pulled a flower from behind him and placed it on the bar. "I brought you something."

Her eyebrow raised, her eyes falling over the flower. "Thank you," she said, a sneer creeping in her tone, "I'll put it aside," she slid it back to him with the back of her hand, "so when I ask 'what'll it be' again and you answer me, I can put it here." She looked back at him pointedly. "What'll it be?"

"Doesn't matter," he answered with a shrug. "Give me whatever you want."

She narrowed her eyes, assessing him carefully. Probably in his mid-twenties, even though he looked a lot older than his age with his two days stubble, saggy and old clothes, and hunched shoulders. She thought of the special brand old whiskey under the shelves then decided against it. She pushed a Corona toward him. Better to be cautious than sorry.

He took it, smiling and spoke conversationally, "I wanted to come back earlier but I had to be sure—"

Then she recognized him as the man who had come in a week ago, and the day before. She decided to escape from any further conversation. "Uh—sorry—I've got people waiting." She walked to the farthest corner from him.

She fixed another scotch to a fence and looked at his companion. "Hey sexy," he greeted her.

She threw at him a flirtatious smile, her lips pulling out on their own record, almost automatically. "Your usual?" she asked.

He nodded and turned to his friend. "I been hearing Big Boys in town." As soon as the words left his mouth, her hand froze above the glass, spilling the liquid onto the counter. Mentally cursing, she quickly grabbed a napkin and put it over the little pool, eyes down, ears keen to pick up the rest of the conversation. "Man—" The fence shook his head, "Knew it. Soon things'll get shitty."

Well, fuck it. Big Boys meant police and police meant trouble. She turned halfway to look in the mirror behind her. She had discarded her fake glasses and died her hair to a dark brown, closer to her natural color. She covered her light green eyes with dark contact lenses, too, and each day before she left her room, she rounded her sharp features with lighting tricks; her sickly pale face was an effect of cheap compact powder. Disguise wasn't anything good but even with her limited resources, she didn't look like anything close to the neat classy corporate lawyer Cameron Reese.

Five months hadn't been generous to her. She had always thought Metropolis as her quick getaway place if things had gone south in Gotham, so after she had escaped from the safe place, she headed to the big city. Only with the money she had pickpocketed from Jones, and a few others on the road, Metropolis's outskirts were the farthest place she had managed to get, but deep down she was feeling that it was time to move on again.

A week after she had arrived in Metropolis, she found Johnny's, ordered a drink and said she was Valerie. Valerie had grown up on her own; she was a tough girl, sexy and carefree. Later that night, she had gone with Johnny. His place was small, crowded and filthy but his hands were gentle, and his moves were experienced. In the morning, he had said she was amazing—really amazing —but he was hoping she hadn't read too much into it. She had shaken her head, smiled and said she hadn't. Before the end of the new day, his one-night-stand had become his new bartender.

Valerie. She threw a smile at her reflection in the mirror. Valerie had grown up on her own, she was a tough girl, sexy and carefree. This time there were no well-crafted personas, because she honestly wasn't sure if she could play any other character than her own _self_ at the moment. Though there was one difference between her and Valerie; simple but crucial; she certainly wasn't carefree, and Valerie had _simpler_ worries.

She took the fence's —what was his name?—almost empty glass out of his clutch, and scoffed playfully. "With customers like you—" She tried to remember his name again but came up empty, "darling, it's obvious we're never gonna be rich." She poured another drink and put it in his hands. "And I thought I taught you better." She tilted her head to the side, eyes measuring him mockingly. "But at least you're still on your feet."

She turned toward the back door. "Mike," she called the bouncer and his head popped out. She showed him a Jack Daniel's bottle. "I'm getting dry here, dear. Fetch me a couple of these, will you?"

A handful of drinks later, the flower boy was calling her again. She turned and saw him still at the corner she left him, shaking his now empty bottle at her; smiling ear to ear. She walked to him. "It's all gone," he stated the obvious with glee, then put the flower in the bottle and stated again, "Look, there is a flower on the top of it."

"I see."

"My flower for you, your juice for me," he said cheerfully.

She narrowed her eyes and examined him to see if it was some of kind cheesy innuendo. He looked sincere, almost innocent. Shaking her head despite herself, she laughed faintly. He became merrier. "I really wanted to come back earlier," he said again. "But I had to be sure."

She sighed, rolling her eyes, and admitted the defeat, "Sure of what?" she asked.

"Sure of what you said," he answered eagerly. "That's why I went home and thought about it, again, again and again…"

"Hmm…" she hummed in a mock of trepidation, "What I said?"

He shook his head. "Simple words. Not important. Not as much as what you meant—"

She gave him a pitying smile. "What I meant then?"

"You meant just what I needed to hear."

"Well," she sneered, "glad to be a help."

"Just six simple words." Then she had a niggling doubt she knew what he was talking about. "I'd wait to hear them for rest of my life, come back soon—"

"—I'll be waiting." She yelled after one of the leaving customers, mostly to spite him. He slumped on his stool; she smirked.

"Look—" she paused, looking at him questionably.

"Joshua," he offered.

She stayed silent for a second. "Look, Joshua, you're—um, cute—but I think there is a misunderstanding here—"

He cut her off. "You don't understand."

"—If you think I somehow meant what you needed to hear at the moment when I said those words, then I have one thing to say: I did _not._" She pulled a glass above her and poured a handsome amount of scotch. "Look, have a drink, that's on me." She offered him the glass, smiling. "Now you can stay as long as you want, but I have a work to attend to. And I don't have time for anything else." Joshua slumped further and, feeling satisfied with his disheartened figure, she left him there.

Around the two in the morning, Mike finally lit the lights above the bar, and under the eerie light of the pale fluorescent they started to close the pub. He walked the last drunks out while she tended to the bar. He then left, shoulders hunched, not as cheerful as earlier in the evening and closed the doors behind him. It had been a long night for everyone.

She stood in silence behind the bar and listened to the sounds of night. It was a cold Saturday night in the heart of winter. On the wind, she heard distant police sirens, coming from far away. Head bowed, she kept listening as something very akin to despair washed over her very being. The necessary symptoms were all there—that bitter ache deep inside, drilling itself through her, and that indescribable feeling of being lost, with no way out over the horizon— It reminded her of things she would rather not to think about and ache—then she noticed her hands started trembling.

_No!_

A simple command, hard and brutal, stopped the trembling. She pulled the special brand out and fixed herself a hard drink. The bitter taste of scotch burned her throat, sliding to her stomach, and she gulped down a second one. She knew what she needed and she wasn't able to get it. Action and distance, those were what she needed, yet she couldn't afford them. She was short on the money to start anew, her nearest available emergency stash was still stationed in Gotham and she couldn't retreat back without putting herself in further jeopardy. And she couldn't turn to her old friends, not when there weren't any gambling chips in her hand, not when her only option was to beg. She had run herself into a corner in every sense of the word.

She turned to climb up back to her room to finish off the night, the bottle in her hand, but there he was, Joshua, below the staircase waiting for her, holding his flower in front of him, smiling hopefully. Not caring enough to argue anymore, she took the flower, but warned for the last time. "I'm not what you're looking for," she said, taking a sip from the bottle.

"Yes. Yes, you are," he objected with a defiant tone. "I found you at the exact moment I wasn't looking for anything. I wasn't searching, clawing, begging…I was just here for a drink." He came closer and put his fingertips on her cheek. She closed her eyes, putting the bottle on the counter. She then hooked her fingers through his belt and turned half aside toward to the restroom's direction…"Then I found you, Cecile. Fate, you might even call it."

As her hand dropped, her eyes fluttered open… and then she stared at him. "Danny… Little Danny?"

A sharp pain above her arm jolted up her body; she stumbled on her heels and pulled a little syringe out of the crook of her elbow. When the first shock wore off, survival instincts kicked back in. Not dawdling any longer, she threw a kick and ran toward the door. A tight grip caught her at her ponytail and her head collided with the metal door with a heavy thud. Blood started to drip downwards. Her hands held the door, trying to open it, but there were other hands pulling her back. She tried to fight back, tried to break herself free, but her limbs weren't listening to her will. They were heavy like stone and the world was of a mere blur.

The last thing she noticed before passing out was his voice. "Cecile…beautiful Cecile, how could you?"

* * *

She woke up in the front seat of a moving car, handcuffed with arms strained over her back and in a great deal of pain, while the rest of her body felt like mush. She forced her head to turn slowly to look outside. Scenes passed before her eyes like a lucid dream, and she closed her eyes and then forced them open again to focus. With a sinking feeling, she saw that they were heading toward Gotham.

"Danny…" Her voice came out as a hoarse whisper, "If this is a revenge thing..." She turned to him. "Most of times I was an unwilling party in Jason's unwise schemes. I really didn't want to hurt you or your brother—"

"Where is your father?" he cut off her tersely.

"I don't know. I haven't seen him for a long time."

He gave her a hard look, and she swallowed. "I really don't know. We grew apart."

"What a pity. You were quite a family," he sneered, "How old were you when he sent you into my brother's arms? Sixteen?"

"Fifteen," she answered coldly. "And you don't know what you're talking about. Jason had never sent me to any man's arms." It was odd to find herself defending Jason, it was really, _really_ odd, but despite everything had happened between them, she couldn't let those words utter in her presence. Firstly, she was right, Jason had never forced her; she had _decided _to walk to Daniel's brother. It was her own decision, and she was not going to let anyone take away that from her, being _what_ she was in an only way it mattered to her.

But her answer angered him even further. "So _you_ wanted it," he said in return, his voice tinting with malice. Okay, maybe, she should have done an exception for this situation.

She shook her head. "You don't understand," she said, "you don't remember…you were too young."

His fist collided with the wheel and he barked out, "I remember well enough. I remember how you looked at him, how you smiled at him. He loved you, Cecile, he trusted you." With a whisper, he added, "We all did." His eyes skipped to her. "Why didn't you say no to your father?"

"Daniel…I was young, and he was my father," she said, almost shocked to hear that she was telling the truth again. "What happened to him?"

With a cold, detached voice, Daniel answered, "He died in prison."

_Fuck it!_ She forced herself to cry and as expected in these kinds of situations began lying. "I'm so very sorry, Daniel. I'm sorry for what happened to him. I'm sorry for what I did to you." She looked at him through heavy lashes, eyes clouded with unshed tears. That was Danny, the little boy who was ready to jump up and down at her every word, the boy who would have done anything to please her; the little boy who had loved his brother's lover platonically. "I know you don't want to hurt me. It's still me, Cecile."

A heavy slap landed on her face, the ring on his finger caught on the corner of her mouth, and it started to bleed. "Don't you dare play that with me, woman."

_Well, things change._ That had been one of the first lessons she had learned too. She dropped the act and glared at him. "What are you going to do with me?"

"Before I came to Metropolis, do you know where I was?" Something cold and heavy dropped in her stomach. She knew, of course, what was coming next. "Gotham," he went on with a friendly voice, "Nice city. I was working for the Irish and then we had a sort of misunderstanding. Before the Joker business got out of the control, I had to leave the city. But I saw you on TV. You were looking different, but it was you, I was sure of it. Did you really think that no one would have recognized you? You have a very memorable face." His gaze skipped toward her for a second. "I guess that held no importance to you. You were going to be a hero, a very rich hero."

She sneered at him. She had thought of it before, of course, and had depended that her old friends wouldn't bore themselves with a city's problems so far away from them. She only hadn't thought some of those friends would have also been in America. So…so stupid. Daniel continued, "The mob in Gotham put a great deal of money on your head and the Irish would be willing to call off some debts, a clean state, you see, it's not just a revenge thing."

"I'm not going to tell you who he is," she bit off, "I won't."

He barked out a humorless laugh. "I don't want to know. Why would I? That knowledge only means trouble. Look at you," His gaze skipped again from the road momentarily to give her a look, "What you have become because of it. Police after you, the mob after you, and after Batman started going on the killing road, I'm sure he's after you too." She started to stir, testing the handcuffs. "No, I don't wanna know who he is," he repeated, shaking his head. "I'm just giving you to the Irish and then _he_ will find ways to make you talk." He looked at her again, his attention distracted. "Seriously though, I don't understand why you're playing the 'I'm so loyal' bullshit—"

She didn't mull it over in her mind, but just threw herself at him. His hands flew off the wheel as her head fell onto his groin. His hand tried to steer the wheel as the other tried to pull her off him. She didn't give him the opportunity; she sank her teeth through his jeans. A howl ripped out of him and she kept biting. The car jerked violently, ran off the road, she lifted her eyes upward and saw that it headed toward the barrier. She tried to brace herself for the impact and sent a wordless prayer to whoever listening.

The car hit the guardrails with deafening sounds. They flipped once, and landed upright inside the riverbed at the roadside.

She didn't know how long she had stayed in that tin can but when she came to, she was soaked with chilling water and there was no movement under her. Daniel's face was dropped on the wheel over her body, bleeding. She tried to move her limbs and oh boy, it hurt. She could barely see through the hair and blood covering her face but they seemed to be off the road in one of Gotham River's frail arms and it was a sort of miracle that she wasn't in any immediate danger of drowning. She sent a silent thank you to global warming; Gotham had been having its driest winter in forty years, and she couldn't have been more grateful of that fact at the moment.

She was burning with pain yet it was painfully obvious that she needed to hurry. Her injures were still fresh and soon they would be only worse. Now she could take it, but later it might be impossible to move even a finger. With her hands tied behind her back there weren't many things to do. The windows were closed even before the crash, the only way out was the door.

She stirred her body, ignoring the pain, straightened her body. Praying the commands in the dashboards were still working, she twisted her body, and looked over her shoulder to find the button that would open the doors. Spotting it in the middle, she raised her arm at the elbow, and pushed on the button. _Click!_ She let out a rough cry of relief, sliding backward on her bottom to open the door. Still, behind she found the door's handle and pulled it, then pushed the door with her weight. Losing her balance, she tumbled back into the river, a scream over her lips. Lying over the stony chilly riverbed, she trembled, the tears finally escaping of her eyes. Shaking her head, she bit her lips, drawing more pain and more blood, but it helped to get herself on feet. Standing up, she let out a deep breath, chills all over her skin, and walked to the Daniel's side.

Turning around, she opened the driver side, and knelt in the riverbed again. She needed to free her hands, and to do that she needed the goddamn keys. She turned back again, and looking over her shoulder, she tried to find her target, his right pocket. Daniel was right-handed, that meant he had possibly pocketed the keys in his right pocket, the pocket that was farthest to her. She wanted to scream again, at the top of her lungs, to herself, to Daniel, to fucking Bruce Wayne, to everyone, to everything... But what would that work for? She lay backward over his lap, trying to slide her fingers through his pocket. Thank god, slipping her fingers into the places they didn't have any right to be was the first trick she had learned, even before Jason, Cathleen's habitual punishments had made that certain if she hadn't wanted to go to bed with an empty stomach.

Her fingers found the pocket, and she slid her fingers in, and fished out the keys out of a few changes. Pulling back off of him, she cried out with the joy, though her cries were mostly pitiful trembling whimpers, but as she freed her hands, she didn't care. She then turned aside and leaned again over Danny. She put two fingers on his neck and felt a faint throb. Quickly he slipped him off of his leather jacket, and wore it over her cardigan. She then handcuffed him to the wheel and walked away.

* * *

It was _really_ a cold winter night. She remembered the temperature being thirty degrees Fahrenheit from the broadcast, the wind speed, ten miles an hour. Not extraordinary in themselves for January, but combined together they created a wind chill cold enough to kill. Trembling constantly with powerful shivers, she followed the river for almost an hour and stayed out of the sight of the main road. Then toward the end of the hour global warming bit her at the ass. It started raining.

Lifting her head, she looked at the thunderous sky, feeling a scream boiling inside her. But she was so tired even to open her mouth. She clung on Danny's leather jacket, urging herself forward. She took a step but her feet stumbled upon some root and she collapsed face down on the muddy earth. She stayed there, motionless under the rain, not moving an inch. She couldn't have guessed walking might demand this much effort.

However, she could stay there, rest a little while. She was safe now. She was bleeding, might be suffering internal injuries, and could die of exhaustion at any minute but she was safe. And here was so much better. It wasn't even as cold as before, she could even say it was warmer. And she was _really _tired. Perhaps she closed her eyes for a minute and rest—just for a little while… She shook her head defiantly and cursed the symptoms of hypothermia. She needed to find a shelter, fast.

Gathering her strength, she pulled herself back to her feet.

She hadn't any idea where she was or how close she was to Gotham. Surely being close to Gotham wasn't a good idea but for now she couldn't even bring herself to care. 'One problem at a time' had been her life's motto as of late. Her first priority was to find a warm shelter, get rid of her soaked clothes, and try to patch herself back together. She could deal with rest later.

Driving an average speed, the distance between Gotham and Johnny's was a three hour trip. When they closed the pub, it had been around two in the morning, and if she wasn't horribly wrong there were still a couple of hours until the dawn. Then again, she'd lost consciousness not one but twice, so her calculations could have been all wrong. But judging by the look of her surroundings she calculated she was still on the outskirts of Gotham, possibly an hour away from the city. If she was correct, she should be coming up on a local industrial zone with a warehouse district.

* * *

She walked for a good half an hour more before she saw the distant, looming image of what she was seeking over the horizon.

Trying to wander undetected around a warehouse district wasn't as easy as it used to be. Most companies had come to follow modern ways, putting the security cameras outside and within, with night guards accompanied by big dogs patrolling the perimeters every hour. She tried to avoid the curious little "big brothers" as much as she could and didn't see any of the night guard at all, with or without dogs. As pleasant as it was, it was hardly a big surprise; it was a small district, almost deserted in favor of Gotham's bigger ones. Fifteen minutes later, she found what she was looking for; a prefabricated building, two stories, half of its windows broken, left to desolation.

She considered going inside through the broken windows but decided against it. The windows appeared to be smashed by local gangs and the residue of the glass could be very fatal in her poor condition. Instead, she tested the main entrance, guarded merely by an old style metal door, blocking its way from strangers with the help of a rusty padlock. She checked her hair and found the clip she had fastened the left side of her bangs still there. She sent another silent 'thank you' to no one in particular and started to work on the lock.

Under normal circumstances, it wouldn't have taken more than a few seconds, but with her trembling fingers it took ages, pins turning around and around until she heard that familiar 'tick'. She pushed the door with all her weight and slipped inside, and, closing it as silently as she could, she rested her back against the cold metal. Finally.

Rows and rows of shelves lined the walls, mostly empty, rusting. She noticed a couple of boxes left behind, and went to investigate. A large box labeled for a company she didn't recognize was the first she ripped open. Toilet paper. Laughing faintly, she took another and tore it open too. With a handful of paper, she started to pat herself dry. One of the smallest boxes turned out to be full of blue working coats of the said company, left behind with other boxes. She picked out three of them with a happy sigh and started to peel off her soaked clothes, including her wet socks, panties, and shoes. The clothes came off painfully, stuck with blood, sweat, water and mud. The parts of her body that were visible were covered with angry slashes and very worrisome bruises, but she didn't dwell on them. If she could survive the night, they would eventually heal. The thing that perturbed her though was the swell she had seen just over her last rib; it looked like something close to a crack. She put on two coats and started to wander again. The coats left most of her legs bare and the chill was still biting, but it was much better than outside, and the funny, smelly coats surely were better than soaked jeans and sweatshirt, too. She saw a door at the farthest corner, and it opened to a room without windows. She searched the walls in the pitch black; her fingers found the switch, and there was the light.

It took some time for her eyes to become accustomed to the bright light again. When they did, she saw one small office station with a dusty desk and broken chair. She tore through the desk's drawers, and her eyes lit up when she saw an unopened package of cookies. She tore it open agitatedly, stuffed the food into her mouth, and checked the telephone on the desk to discover that the line was still working. The old and battered couch across from the desk was the most comfortable piece of furniture she had ever seen, but her real findings were the red first aid kit and the water heater hidden at the corner beside of the little kitchenette. Under the kitchenette, there wasn't kettle or coffee maker left behind, but she found a small dirty bowl of sugar. She took three cubes out, and threw them in her mouth. Sucking the sugar, she reasoned that, if there was water heater, there might be a shower too, and her most precious finding was there squeezed in the corner farthest from the desk; merely a small bathtub, the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

She turned on the water and was relieved when murky, heated liquid spilled from the showerhead. She pulled off the coats in a second and hopped into it. Her body and wounds protested the sudden change of temperature, but she didn't care. She stood motionless and watched the blood, mud, and dirt wash off her body. She didn't let herself think of anything other than the twirling dirty water below her feet. She didn't want to think now; truthfully, she didn't want to think at all. Almost thirty years, and all she had learned from life was that the only thing you could do was go on.

Her miracle came to an abrupt end with the water getting cold. With a deep sigh that would sum up her life of late, she turned off the tap. She patted herself dry quickly with paper towels, and put on the dry coats. She couldn't do anything for her hair but try to dry it with paper and as desperate as she was, she wasn't willing to experiment with it. She opened the first aid, and swallowed three painkillers dry. She started to wash her cuts with antiseptic but it was mostly gone, so instead she began to dress them using the tattered bandages.

When she had done all things that could be done with the limited resources the warehouse had gently provided, she walked toward the sofa barefoot and lay on it. She used the other coats to cover her legs and feet, turned to her unwounded side, and then reflected on the situation.

One word summed it up very nicely; fucked. She thought from all the angles she could come up with, and every time she came to the same conclusion. _You have no choice._

The dawn had just broken when she made the call. The phone rang, rang, and rang…then a voice with a graceful British accent answered, "Hello?"

"Mr. Pennyworth," she said, voice trembling slightly. She chose to blame the chill for that. "I need to talk with Mr. Wayne."

The other side of the line was quiet for a while. Then he spoke, "Who is calling?"

"Cameron Reese."


	5. Part II-II

**Part II. II – Contact**

* * *

The night was cold, rain beating his armor hard. Stirring slightly on his bad leg, Bruce twisted an inch away, and immediately frowned afterward. He had used to stay still in his post for hours, but even a full hour hadn't passed since he had crouched at the fire escape of a building at the opposite side of Castillo's bodega, and his leg had started giving him troubles. In the last five months, his leg had improved and he had gotten used to the ache in his joint, but winter had worsened the structure. He would need to see Fox on that. The prospect had his eyebrows pull tighter together. Hissing silently, he pressed his ear outside the cowl. "Alfred, where are they?" he asked, his eyes checking the bodega at the corner of 13th Street in the Bowery. The homicide detectives would have already been here, especially given how Burke usually drove.

There was a brief silence in his ear as Alfred checked the trackers. "They're approaching, sir." As soon as Alfred finished, Bruce heard the tell-tale motor sounds, and the black Ford Mustang that Detective Burke patently drove passed on the road like a beast, and skidded to a halt in front of the bodega, his tires screeching. Even from his post across the street, Bruce could see the way his new co-worker Isley grabbed the handle at the door, balancing herself for the impact. First grade detective, a good cop, but the homicide task force officer was still the worst driver Bruce had ever seen, and coming from _him_, that was saying something.

The detectives got out of the car and walked to the bodega. Bruce pulled out a small device from his utility belt, and linked the detective's cell phones to his wireless radio, his attribution to the force once again coming handy. Over a faint static, the conversation started coming into his ear. "Mr. Castillo," Isley called the owner, as the balding man in his early forties gave outside a wary glance. Bruce could understand the wariness. Since last week the detectives had frequented the bodega stubbornly, trying to get the man to testify against the weapon dealer that Bruce also had been after for two weeks. Hector was a leader of a street gang called SP-10 that had started supplying guns for the Russians. He had used to run a small business in dismantling the stolen cars, but after the power vacuum that the Dent Act had left in the streets, the man had started to look for greener pastures. His gang had started to cause trouble, and Bruce was determined to close his business before the man got more—influential in Gotham's underworld. Castillo had witnessed a hit go down in front of his bodega last week, a young man, Tobias Lazio, gunned down after he had backed down from testifying against Hector. Burke and Isley had been assigned to Tobias's case, and they had been trying to get the man testify against the weapon dealer since last week. Bruce knew the bodega owner would never. Not without some encouragement first. He would have already tied this matter, days ago, but standing with the police at the opposite sides, things didn't resolve themselves as fast as they once had.

The redhead detective let out a subdued sigh, looking at the man. "You didn't come to the precinct," she told Castillo, her words almost accusing.

Next to her, Burke took a Lays bag and opened it. He took two chips out and threw it in his mouth. "We been waitin' for you, buddy," he said, munching the chips.

Castillo shook his head. "Look, I told you—" the man said, his voice almost imploring, "I can't... I have a family. The last man that tried to cross Hector got gunned down just in front of my shop."

"And you witnessed that," Isley shot back, drawing closer to the man. There was a heat in her voice, and a fire in her eyes that surprised Bruce to hear every time. She was a petite young woman, just out of the Academy, but there was a fierce resolve in her whenever there was an innocent involved in her work. "You _have to_ stand up. You can't let Hector go like nothing happened."

Castillo gave them a pained look, almost ashamed. "I can't," he repeated again, "I'm sorry... I knew Toby," he continued, "We went to the same high school. I liked him, he was a good guy, but—" He shook his head. "You don't cross Hector. Toby backed down too—"

Burke cut his words off, throwing his mouth another chip, "Didn't save him, though," he said, wrinkling his nose with a sniff then got closer too. He brushed his hand over the man's apron to dry the oil off his fingers then grabbed the owner at his shoulder. "Look buddy, we been talked that before," he spoke in a friendly voice, "Whether you like it or not, whether you testify or not, you're in Hector's radar. So why don't you help yourself?" He gave the man a look, raising his eyebrow, "You testify, we put Hector away, and everyone lives happily ever after."

Castillo gave him a suspicious look, "And then afterward?" he asked, "What happens then?"

Burke threw the chips away, his expression finally getting serious. "What do you mean "then"?" he asked, "I told you we all live happily after."

The owner shook his head, as if in sadness, "Do you really believe that, detective?" he asked, "Or you just hope I would?"

Isley walked to him, her dark green eyes aflame, "We can protect you, Mr. Castillo."

"No, you can't," Castillo objected, and shook his head again at them, "This isn't our city, detective, this is the city of people who want us dead." He turned to leave, "You can't change that."

Behind the cowl, Bruce's eyebrows tightened, as the words turned in his mind. They were true, despite the improvement the Dent Act was making on the streets slowly, the city still wasn't of regular people that only wanted to live their lives with their families and loved ones. With each criminal he put away, another two were stepping in; they were fighting the same battle, just with different players.

The detectives left, their faces set, jaws clenched, because they both knew what Castillo had told was true. They couldn't protect him. But Batman could. Standing up from his post, he climbed up, and jumped to the roof of the bodega, consciously landing on with a heavy thud on the cement floor. He stalked to the edge over the back exit and waited until Castillo came outside with a wary pace. He jumped down. With a squeak, the man pulled back from the door, but he caught him. "You don't need to fear Hector," he rasped out, his gauntlet hand still on the man's shoulder, his grip tight, "He won't be a problem for you," he continued, looking at the man's eyes, "Not after tonight." The man's eyes widened with shock and fright, he nodded, but Bruce wasn't sure if he had understood what he had meant, so he added, "You will go to Detective Burke's precinct tomorrow morning, and you will testify."

Looking at him still frightened, Castillo nodded agitated, "Okay...okay," he whispered, "I will—I swear." He paused, his lips trembling, "Please-please don't—don't hurt me." His hand pulled back as if his skin had burned. He looked at the owner, as the man trembled more under his close scrutiny. "Please—please," he whimpered out, imploring words pouring out of him, "I have a family."

Bruce took a step back, what he had seen inside the older man's eyes had his bad leg almost stumbling on the payment. In his eyes, there was fear, but it wasn't because of the weapons dealer, no, it was because of the Batman; the killer of Harvey Dent.

* * *

When he returned to the cave, Alfred was silent, as if he had already sensed his foul mood after his talk with Castillo. Jumping down from the Batpod, Bruce took the cowl off, and tossed it off on the ground, every muscle in his body still strained like he was wired to a bomb that would go off in any minute. "Master Bruce," he heard Alfred's weary voice from his behind as he walked to the cabinet to take off his armor.

"I don't want to talk about it," he told Alfred tersely, entering in the cabinet. Inside, he took off the joints of the armor, with more vigor than necessary, and peeled off his thermal jumpsuit. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't even want to think about it. He had made his own bed, and now he was going to lie in it. His teeth ground against each other on their account, and he heaved out a frustrated sigh. He could take it. He could be whatever Gotham needed him to be.

Grabbing his right shoulder with his left hand, he rolled his shoulder, opening the shower in the cabinet. After he had left Castillo, he had gone to find Hector and he hadn't been easy on him, not one bit. He had made sure the weapons dealer knew that if he caught him out in the streets in the next two decades, he was going to make him very, very sorry. Nodding frantically at him, Bruce knew, the weapons dealer had seen in his eyes what Castillo had seen.

If Batman was going to pretend to be a killer, he should at least benefit from it.

He stepped out of the shower, quickly got dressed, and left the cabinet; the night had aged, but he knew the sleep wasn't an option tonight. He might at least get some work done. He stalked to his work station in the newly equipped cave, feeling rather grateful of the gloom as he could pretend he didn't notice the look Alfred was giving him. A month ago, the construction of the Manor had finished and they had moved back. The manor though didn't feel like his old house, even though they had built it back in the fashion of the old one brick by brick. He knew what was missing. The tiles were squeaking under his feet whenever he walked in the corridors, the staircases were steady, unlike the former. The walls were too pristine, projecting the truth that no one lived here before; his father and his mother never climbed down this staircase hand in hand, Rachel and he had never ran through these corridors, chasing each other, laughing and screaming; the house wasn't the same. It was just a reflection of good times, now forever lost. And he shouldn't be surprised, either. He had a tendency to lose everything that mattered to him the most.

The cave, however, was the same. The sturdy small pebbles under his feet felt the same way as the bats chirping up above his head. He could hear the splashing sound from the left corner where the entrance covered with the waterfall, and the light echo that even the smallest breath made across the stone walls. It was the only place he would find any relief, sometimes. "Master Bruce," Alfred started again after a pause, walking closer, never giving up on him, never, "You need to rest—"

He cut off the rest of his words, "I'm fine, Alfred," he said automatically, and asked, his eyes skipping toward the square metal box over the counter, "Did you check them?" He pointed the box with his head.

Alfred looked at him, a silent sigh over his lips. "Sir, they're just trinkets—"

"Did you?" Bruce interrupted him again.

"Yes—" the older man replied, as Bruce pulled the metal box closer and opened it. "Nothing specific." Bruce looked at the cheap trinkets; bracelets, necklaces, earrings, pendants, rings, even bangles, things could be found in any street stall in the world. He had found the box when he had gone to her home in the midtown to search the house. His objective had been to find a set clear of fingerprints, and a few personal items that would have given him an opportunity to find her. He hadn't. He had found a fingerprint that also checked with one of prints he had discovered in her office but there was nothing related to it in the databases.

Her building was one of the few walk-up buildings in the outskirts of the midtown, close to where 11th Avenue crossed Broadway, in the close proximity of hot spots of the city but still secluded from the rush of the city life. The building also didn't have a concierge, as he suspected it was one of the reasons she had chosen it. The one-bedroom flat was decorated stylistic; modern and new age, but it was lacking any personal touch. The metal box had been inside a black backpack, together with her wallet, three thousand dollars, and a Glock .27, 19mm. He discarded the gun as soon he had touched it, and left the money, but took the metal case and the wallet with him.

The wallet had been useless, and the metal box...Well...it was hard to tell. He hadn't been sure what to expect from it, besides giving him a clue to find who Cameron Reese really was, but what he had found had baffled him even more. He had expected many things; identities, passports, money, bonds, jewelry, flash drives, but cheap trinkets would have never been in his list even in his wildest dreams. He didn't know what to make of them. First he had tried to assort them in a way that would suggest a pattern, but they were at random; one moment the item was a necklace with a peace sign dangling at the end of it, the next it was an Indian-style bangle. He had also tried to discover a mark that would set them apart, some Sherlockian clue that would solve the whole mystery but there was nothing. Inside the box, apart from the trinkets, there was a velvet pouch. Inside the pouch there was a small sea shell, and a picture of a woman.

Pulling the box closer, he searched for the photo. "You go up, Alfred," he ordered, "I'm working a bit."

Even with his eyes cast down he could still feel Alfred's eyes as they bore a hole through his neck. Dutifully, Bruce kept his gaze at the box, searching through its content. For a moment, he thought the older man was going to protest, or even worse he was going to give him one of his lectures, but the next moment he heard his soft footsteps as he moved away. It had been a long day, and sometimes even Alfred would give up. Heaving a sigh as the metal lift revived with a grunt, Bruce took the photo out.

There she was; a woman who had a clear resemblance to "Cameron". She was wearing a mini skirt and a sweater that were dated a few decades earlier. She had shadows under her eyes, the light in her eyes dimmed through the lenses. She was sitting on a stone bollard at a quay, giving the camera a sad smile. All indications were telling she was a relative, perhaps even her mother. He had run it through the databases, but once again had come up with nothing. He had run his chances in the face recognition program, too, even though he had known he wasn't going to find anything.

But he wasn't going to give up, either. Last night, he had separated the quay she was in from the rest of the photo, and tonight he would check it to find at least a point of origin to limit the parameters of research. The quay wasn't anything extraordinary. It seemed to be a river coastline, but there was no vehicle; no ships, no boats, not even a rowboat to pinpoint its location; it was a deserted place, like the only living souls at that moment were the woman that was sitting on the bollard and the person who was taking the shot.

Still, he tried his chances. First he crossed the enlarged image with every port or wharf he could find in New York, then Gotham, then in all America. Like he had expected, nothing had come up. Not giving up, he turned to the other parts of the world, too, as he was beginning to suspect she wasn't even from America, but it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Heaving a sigh, he leaned back in his seat, resting his head over the headrest of his chair, his eyes closing.

This wasn't going anywhere. Perhaps he should just accept the defeat and stopped looking for her. Her message in the safe house was clear. She hadn't sold him out, perhaps because she had felt some small gratitude, perhaps because she hadn't seen any reason to do it, or perhaps just because she hadn't want to put herself further into the mess that was his life. But whatever her reason was, she had made another thing painfully clear. She didn't want his help, or anyone else. She wanted them to leave her alone.

She could apparently take care of herself, even though she had been stupid enough to put herself in the middle of Batman and _Him_, but it looked like she had gotten wiser. Perhaps he really should leave the case, he was getting obsessive, he knew, but he didn't know how. She knew about him. In a matter of speaking, besides Alfred and Fox she was the only person who really knew _him._ And he couldn't even remember how many times they had spoken, actually spoken to each other... Twice? Three times? Certainly not more than four times.

He had possibly flirted with her at the day they had met; she was an attractive woman, and Bruce Wayne flirted with every attractive woman in his vicinity. Hell, he might have even asked her out, if he had felt the need to play the dickhead, getting his employees to squirm, uncomfortable with his eccentrics, just because he had to keep up appearances.

And how much she herself had had to keep up the appearances; he could still remember how Fox had used to drill him about LSI Holdings deal before he had figured out the truth behind the company, chiding him about the lawyer at his neck, not giving him a moment of reprise.

The faint sunlight started creeping inside through the small opening at the cave's roof, chasing the shadows with the new dawn. He let out another sigh, his eyes skipping toward her photo over the glass board as she had been about to ruin his whole life.

Over the soft hum of the machinery in the cave, he heard the sounds of the lift again. His eyes draw toward it, and he saw Alfred exiting out of the metal cage a few seconds later.

He let out a breath, "Alfred—" he started, but his words stopped as soon as he saw Alfred's expression. Suddenly alert, he straightened in his seat. "What happened?"

Alfred raised his arm, his fingers holding the phone, "Sir—" Alfred said, "She—she's calling."

* * *

His hands were steady as he put a trace on the line before he reopened the connection, his eyes skipping toward her photo for a second. Briefly he considered how to answer then decided to go with the thing he had been thinking just before the call had arrived. "I didn't expect you to call," he said to the phone, getting his tone impassive, nothing to suggest of his incredulity or his wariness, "At the police custody your message was very clear."

For a while, there was no sound from the other side, as he knew she was trying to find a suitable answer for his unspoken inquiry. Then she spoke, her words bluntly simple, "I need your help."

He asked with the same bluntness, "Why should I help you?"

"I didn't sell you out."

A bitter laugh came to the tip of his mouth but he surpassed it at the last moment. "No," he retorted unaffected, then stated the facts, "You _merely_ blackmailed me and then tried to expose me for money."

"What would you have me to do? People were dying and you weren't doing anything."

He frowned. If she really believed that he could buy _that_ she was the half of the woman he was suspecting her to be. "Don't expect me to believe that you did what you did for the good of people," he remarked placidly, "You—"

She cut him off, "Mr. Way—" but halted before she completed the word, a brief hesitation entering into her voice, then she started again, this time going with his first name, "_Bruce_—" She paused momentarily again, as if to weigh his name on her tongue. He knew what she was trying to do, she wasn't going to call him with formalities; they had already passed them. "We can all point fingers at each other whole time but let's _not_," she said, her voice almost earnest, "The bottom line is that you owe me one. I could have gone to mob or stayed with the police. But I didn't. I kept your secret."

And that was really the bottom line. His eyes skipped again to her photo for a moment, before he asked, "And why's that?" Because he was curious, god, he had been curious about that since the time she had escaped from the safe house.

Again there was a silence, but this time it talked to him in volumes. "It's—" the word came out in a low voice, as if she was struggling with the words, as if she was making a confession she didn't want to, "—possible that I might have behaved—inconsiderately…" She faltered, heaving a breath out. "What you did for me that day…" The words trailed off again, and he could almost see her shaking her head at the other side, feeling at lost. "I don't expect you to understand," she said after a while, clearing her voice, then swallowed lightly as if to absorb the sudden tense moment. A second later, she started again, her voice again bluntly simple; "But understand this," she said, something close to a _warning_ edging her tone, "I'm a liability to you. You _wouldn't_ want me to wander around without help."

The words had his eyebrows rise. He brought the phone close to his mouth. "_Ms. Reese_," he rasped out the fake name in a low rasp, his own voice edging too, "are you threatening me again?"

He heard almost a gasp from the other side. "No!" she objected in a hurry and then continued in a more collected tone, "No. I just advise caution. I won't go to the mob or the police if you refuse me now." She sounded sincere, but Bruce didn't know how much he could trust on that. "I'll do my best," she went on, "but let's be realistic; sooner or later one of them will catch me." She paused again, leaving the rest of the words unsaid. She didn't need to say them aloud, what she had meant was already crystal clear. "If you can't bring yourself to help me, then help yourself," she concluded finally, her tone wasn't imploring but matter-of-fact.

In silence, he lifted his head, and looked around. It was odd to have this conversation. For five months he had been looking for her, but now he understood he hadn't the slightest idea what to do with her once he found her. He had become so focused on just finding her, that inevitable outcome had gotten lost behind that. Now, _she_ had found him—again, and she was asking his help, and he was no idea to where that fact was putting them. Their lives had tangled too much, there was so much—confusion. And she had called him for _help._

"Look," she started again, her voice suddenly weary as if she had sensed the same confusion that tied themselves to each other, "I've brought this on myself, and I'm trying to deal with it." This time the words was truly sincere, there was no doubt in there. "It's not easy for me either, groveling to you like this. And believe me I wouldn't if I had any other option. But truth is, I, um, I—don't—" She faltered on words again, then heaved a loaded sigh as if it took everything in her to complete the words, "I don't have anywhere else to go," she confessed.

Her image appeared in his mind, as she looked at him at the crash... Then another image flashed, and the light green disappeared, leaving their places to brown, and Castillo looked at him, fear and dread darkening his eyes to black...

"Say something…" she whispered out from the other side, from far away.

And he did, with a quiet voice, he did, he told her what she was to him. "You're a threat to me."

She swallowed, "Yes, I am."

"And how can you trust I won't eliminate it?"

From the other side, he heard her taking a sharp breath, clearly understanding what he had meant; that she was asking the help of a killer. "You—" she whispered out, "you helped me once."

"That was a long time ago," he stated coldly, Castillo's face going through his mind again, "A lot of things have changed since then."

He could hear the trembles in her voice when she answered slowly, "I was hoping it still means something."

His eyes found her photo again, and he admitted, "Yes, yes, it does." It meant _everything._ He heard her letting out another deep rough breath, but this time it was one of a relief. "Where are you?" Bruce asked.

"I'm not—sure—" He frowned, his mind already starting speculating, then she made a noise, close to a sniff, "Aren't you tracing the line?"

The question brought a sudden smile over his lips, and he almost laughed, almost. He checked the computer that was trying to find her location, close to Gotham, but it wasn't still clear. "I need more time," he told her truthfully, his voice unaffected as in the way of hers.

"Well, hurry up," she shot back causally, "Can't say I'm in the best shape."

His eyebrows pulled into another frown. "I want to ask you one thing." Something he had been wondering now for five months.

"I'm listening."

"What's your real name?"

"Valerie," she answered without missing a beat.

* * *

Closing the phone, she threw herself on the couch, heaving out the zillionth deep breath, her whole body started trembling again uncomfortably, drained and spent. She wished she had a drink. No, she wished she had lots, lots of drinks. She pulled the coats over her body again, and lay over the couch, telling herself her tremors had nothing to do with the call she had just forced herself to go through.

She also told herself she hadn't made a mistake. _How can you trust that I won't eliminate it?_

How indeed, she asked herself. The man had killed Harvey Dent, the White Knight of Gotham. But why, that was the thing that wasn't making a sense. He had saved her, throwing himself on the way of danger whilst doing it, even after what she had tried to do to him. Why would such a man kill someone like Dent? It made little sense. It was possible that he had _had to_ do it because she couldn't see a man like him doing something like this without any reason. There _had to_ be a reason, she was sure of it, even though she didn't know it. What Harvey Dent had gone through...it must have been hard, something must have happened, enough to resolve Batman to take his life, perhaps even a mercy kill, or a last resort, but a _justification _nevertheless. No, the question wasn't if he killed Harvey Dent. The question was what the justification was. And what would justify in his mind ending her existence as well?

She broke to a sudden cold sweat, her body shaking uncontrollably with tremors. She passed a hand over her forehead, heat emitting out of her pores, her teeth clattering. Okay, this was nothing to do with Bruce Wayne. With each second she was wasting here, the chances that she got pneumonia were raising. But she had nowhere else to go to, either. The thought brought back her confession from moments ago, how she had forced herself to admit that fact.

Honesty...honesty didn't really work with her. But still she had done it, because it was truth, because truth sometimes was the best tool to—handle people like Bruce Wayne. Some might call it a blunt act of manipulation, but it still didn't change the fact; it was _true._

She let out another loaded sigh, pulling the coats tighter around herself. She closed her eyes. What happened, happened. There was no point stressing over it now. She had called him, and he had accepted to help. The rest they would see. Her last thought before she drifted into a restless slumber was if she should call him again to ask bring warm clothes...

It was a hard callous hand shaking her slightly at her shoulder that pulled her out of the land of dreams. She jerked up to consciousness, her fingers reaching to the hand on reflex, but her hand met with nothing as the sudden movements trembled her torso with a jolt of pain, her whole body burning with heat.

Momentarily she closed her eyes, biting inside of her cheek to choke out a rough moan rising from her throat. It hurt. Every muscle hurt, every cell burned. For a moment, she felt she would faint, and she almost wished she could have, but she couldn't afford such weakness, not now.

Not when, standing just a few feet from her, Bruce Wayne was looking at her, eyes squinted warily. There was a gloomily air around him she had never seen before, somber and brooding; his face was pale and seemed to be carved out of stone without his usual quirky smile. Somehow he looked closer to the man she had seen only a glimpse after the crash than the man who fell asleep in board meetings. His eyes were the same as that day, too; sharp, measuring, keen; taking everything around and about her into perspective.

His hands went toward his back and instinctively she took a step back, her body tensing. Her fear must have projected off her face clearly because he immediately raised his hands up in the air, palms facing her in the universal sign for peace, and smiled. It was faint, barely there, one edge of his mouth slightly tilted up, eyes not breaking their contact, and she kept his eyes, hypnotized, and watched him as he took off his long coat. He drew her closer slowly, her eyes still stuck on his. He draped it over her shoulders. "You really aren't in the best shape."

In her better days, she would sniff at such a comment, but evidently it wasn't one of those. So instead, she nodded and put her arms through the coat. The brief smile gone, his face was closed again. "Let's go."

She nodded again and searched for her scattered clothes, trying to wipe her traces. Her shoes were still wet, and so were the socks when she found them. Twisting away from him, she added her underwear to her little bundle of garments. Her job finished, she looked at the shoes, trying to decide which would be worse; walking in the dripping shoes or walking barefoot over the asphalt in the winter cold. It was hardly a difficult choice. With a sigh, she walked to the shoes and put them on.

She turned to him. "All right, that's it," she announced, her voice getting rougher, even talking was becoming hard, "I think I'm done." Despite the words she stayed still, though, looking around. There was still something, a small uncertainty turning over in her brain. "I tried to avoid any security cameras while I broke in," she explained, "but I'm not sure I've been careful enough. And I want to be sure that none of it come back to bite me in the ass again."

He shook his head, took her arm, and led her toward the main door. "I'll deal with them later."

_Riiiight…_ They walked out as dawn painted the sky in a mystic orange and purple. She wondered if they appeared like a scene in a classic movie, two lone figures, walking side by side to a future unknown…two strangers whose paths had collided with an unexpected twist of fate. Her odd thoughts came to an abrupt halt upon seeing his car; another Lamborghini. This time she recognized it well enough; _Murcielago_ – "bat" in Spanish. She started laughing silently. She had lost it, she had finally lost it. Her fever finally had melted her brain. But there was something so irrelevantly ironic with the situation. She couldn't help it; her laughter became louder.

Scowling, he looked at her, hard. "What is it?"

Shaking her head, she settled on the passenger seat, "Nothing."

Inside the car, he gave her another look and started the engine. The beast came alive with a deep growl and lunged forward. She leaned back then and took in the comfort of her warm environment. She passed a hand over her head, and her hand almost burned. She tugged off her wet shoes and pulled the visor mirror down to look at her face. When her eyes met with her reflection, she winced at what she saw.

She hadn't exaggerated, nor had he; definitely not in the best shape, nope, not even close. The residue of blood and dirt was still apparent on her skin, and a small-size lump sat just above her hairline; surely from when Danny had smashed her head to the pub's door. Her eyes were glinting feverish, her face flustered with heat. The slashes and bruises over her face was almost lost behind the redness. She touched the corner of her mouth where Daniel's ring had caught her skin, and ran her nail along the trail.

_Every contact leaves a trace_, Jason had used to say all the time. And yes, they did, you couldn't wipe off their marks, no matter how hard you tried. You couldn't change the past, nor could you run away from it.

"What happened to you?" Eyes focused on the road, Bruce Wayne finally asked.

She snapped the mirror back, and answered simply, "I got kidnapped." She pointed at the navigation. "Is this where we are?" He nodded. "Your cell phone, is it untraceable?"

"Yes—"

"May I use it?"

He gave her another one of those hard looks, eyes sharpened and narrowed into a faint scowl. She tilted her head toward him and forced herself to pull on a thin smile, lips not parting. His left hand went to his pocket; he fished the phone out and threw it in her lap. She took it and dialed nine-one-one.

Gathering her last resolve, she barked out to the phone in a voice close to hysterical, "OH—GOD, OH—GOD—" as she faked hysteria, his scowl deepened. She didn't care. By now he must have already understood she wasn't what she seemed on the surface. "Oh-my-god, there's a crash on the outside of Gotham, on the—" She leaned forward to read the zone's name. "—on the Gullain, at the roadside—someone is stuck there—no…I can't…No, I don't know but he's injured pretty badly." She lowered her voice, "I don't think he's a good guy," then added almost as a whisper, "he's handcuffed to the wheel."

She closed the phone and gave it back to him. "I was tending a bar in Metropolis," she explained flatly. "He found me there. Made his move tonight. Drugged me before I understood what was happening, and when I came to myself, we were heading back to Gotham. He said he was going to give me to the Irish." She gave him a pointed look. "He said they put a good price on my head."

His hands gripped the wheel tighter until his knuckles became white. "The accident?" he questioned.

"Threw myself at him to cause an accident," she answered, "I came to before him, handcuffed him to the wheel then ran away."

"Handcuffs?" he asked with a growl that was getting on her nerves.

"He handcuffed me," she snapped back. "I'm not running around with handcuffs." Although she was really starting to consider making it into a habit. "If you still have any further inquiries they will have to wait. I'm really not in best shape for questioning either." She rested her head back again, closed her eyes, and refused to acknowledge him any further. If he was going to kill her and throw her into some God-forsaken pit, then they were going to see.

* * *

_*The scenario at the beginning was taken from an episode of Person of Interest._


	6. Part II-III

**Part II. III – "Stuck"**

* * *

"Open your eyes!" Before she drifted to sleep, the order ringed in her ears, voice hoarse, close to that irritating rasp. She jerked up, her eyes snapping open on the command. Confused, she looked at him. "Head trauma," he explained shortly, his eyes skipping from the road toward her hairline, where the lump sat in red and blue, "You shouldn't sleep."

She shook her head, the motion sending another surge of pain through her temples. "I already fell asleep—"

"And you also possibly have hypothermia," he added.

She wrapped his dark grey long coat over her body tighter, almost protectively, basking in the warmness of the fine wool tweed. "I'm fine—under the circumstances," she added after his look.

"Either way, we should check you out first."

She huffed, a weary and fraught voice; the last thing she wanted to do now was playing doctor-nurse with Bruce Wayne. "Are you aware that I'm a fugitive?" she snapped back, "I can't walk in a hospital and get a tomography."

He shook his head slightly, "You don't need to." Frowning at the simple retort, she craned her neck to look at him in question. But instead of answering her, he reached out to his phone. "Alfred," he spoke after a short wait, "Get to the bunker," he ordered, taking a turn to the East harbor, where Gotham's main warehouse district was located, instead of north where his Manor should raise in Palisades. The bunker, she passed in her mind, the bunker...

"Prepare the CAT scanner—" She stared at him, her eyes would have widened comically too if she had had any energy to manage the mimic, but she hadn't. The luxury of the car was taking away the last ounce of her resolve. She rested back in her seat further. "And bring warm clothes, too," he added for the last, his eyes shifting toward her again, and closed the phone. Then everything was silent. The car must be making sounds like a beast but inside of the sound-isolated interior, there was just a soft humming of the mighty motor. The droning was like a lullaby in a foreign language to her ears, her limbs almost weightless, listless, and she could really sleep—it was so comfy...and instead of being alert, somehow she felt secure, he couldn't hurt her...not really... Her eyelids started closing...

"Hey!" his voice boomed in the car, "Open your eyes!"

Jerking again, she jolted up in the passenger seat, her face twisting with pain. She touched at her temple. "For god sake," she whispered, "_Don't_ shout."

"Talk to me," he ordered.

She half raised her hands in the air, opening her palms to sides, "Talk you about what?"

His eyes skipped toward her again. "You can tell me what you've been doing in the last five months."

"I already told you," she answered as snappishly as she could, "I was tending a bar."

"All five months?"

"Yeah—" she shrugged.

"Your name—" he said then, "It's not Valerie, is it?"

"Look_," _she said, half closing her eyes, a helpless frustration making a notch in her voice, "I'm really _not_ in the mood for interrogations." She pointed at the lump in her hairline. "See, I've got concussion!"

With the gesture, she had hoped he might have relented, but he didn't. Instead, he pressed further, "What's your name?" Instead of answering him, she turned her head away, and looked at outside. God, she really wished she could have slept, or at least gave him the silent treatment. She couldn't deal with this now, not when her mind was a mush, and her whole body was feeling like a puppet with strings cut out. But Bruce Wayne wasn't one to back down easily; she was starting to gather that, too. "Who are you?" he insisted.

"Just a girl," she muttered, her eyes still facing at the window.

"What's your name?" he repeated, stressing each word, his voice turning to a rasp again.

She shrugged. "Cathy, Lizzy, Dizzy, Minnie. What makes difference? Names are overrated."

"What do your parents call you?" he shot back.

Turning her head at him, she gave him a look. "Wouldn't know," she answered, "grew up in a convent."

Her answer took him by surprise, she could see it. She remembered him being an orphan himself, in the guardianship of his butler, the man that had answered the phone first. He stayed silent for a while, and she hoped that was the end of the conversation, but after the brief pause, he spoke again, with a slow voice, almost a murmur, "Everyone has a name."

Heaving a sigh out, she realized that the only way to get over this was telling him the truth. Why wouldn't she anyway? If he couldn't have done it by now, it was unlikely that he could discover anything with just a name. It wasn't like _that_ name meant something, either. It was just something Cathleen had decided that she should have carried, just like she had decided how she would act, talk, and eat. She had never cared about Cathleen's wishes before, so why should a single simple _word_ be any different? "It says Sarah on my birth certificate," she said dismissively, deciding it didn't really matter.

But Bruce Wayne thought the opposite. "So Sarah—" he started, voice content, as if he had won a battle.

She interrupted him, shaking her head. "Don't call me that," she opposed, and told him the truth, "It's just a word written on some paper. It's not my name."

"Then what do you call yourself?" he asked, his voice half inquisitive, half frustrated, as he dived in a secluded part of the warehouse district at the bay.

"I've been called many things—" She threw at him a smile, half mocking, half knowing, "—But you can call me _Valerie_. Valerie is a girl who is deep in trouble, and so am I."

Half twisting his neck, he gave her a look, steering the car expertly even though his attention was focused more on her than the road. But she wasn't surprised at that fact. She had already experienced _how_ he could drive, by first hand. The moment of crash flashed in her mind, another surge of heat breaking over her skin. A shiver passed over her body, but this time she wasn't sure of the reason.

He passed through a wire-fenced door, which was protected with a couple of signs, warning strangers with big red letters, "Private Property" and "No Trespassing". The area was big, perhaps more than ten acres, she couldn't see the end of it. But it was empty; abandoned, like its brightest days had gone long ago. He followed the broken asphalt path and stopped the car in front of an old-rusting warehouse. He turned and looked at her. "So _Valerie_—" he said, stressing the name pointedly, "Are you ready?"

In answer, she opened the Lamborghini's door, and got out. As soon as she stood outside, the winter chill hit her, together with a fit of nausea, her legs trembling. She quickly grabbed the car's hood, her breaths vaporous in the morning air. Bowing her head, she tried to steady herself, but after the warm comfort of the car, it was easier said than done. Just great, just fucking great.

A few seconds, he was at her side, his hand taking a hold of her upper arm. "Are you okay?" His voice was softer than his grip, almost concerned.

Without moving, she nodded. "Just a bit dizzy," she murmured between thin breaths, "It'll pass."

He studied her carefully, eyebrows tightened, then nodded. "Let's get inside," he said, taking her toward the main entrance. Like the rest of everything in the compound, the door was also an old rusty metal block, secured with an equally rusting padlock. His fingers touched the backside of the lock, and a mechanism clicked. He opened the door, pushing it with the palm of his free arm.

It was her second time in an abandoned warehouse in the same day, and this time, it was even worse. The warehouse she had holed up before had at least some small signs of life that were suggesting that there had been times that the structure had been a place that had people working in. This one, however, didn't even that kind of remnants; it was just collapsing into decay with corrosion, rot, and blight in the dark.

For a moment, for a crazy moment, she thought this was his—lair, that he was taking her to his _special_ place. Her nerves stood up, despite the weariness, the flight instinct running high on her blood, and she almost broke out of his grip and ran to the door. She looked around, almost frantically, her heart in her throat. What the hell she was thinking walking to this pit with her own feet? If she died here, no one would find her again. No one.

Sensing her fright, he stopped, and looked at her. Her eyes stuck, she looked back at him, too, but what she saw was the same man she had seen before; the man once had saved her. Trembling this time for all different reasons, she forced her lips to crack up into the thinnest smirk. "All that money," she whispered, despite the tremors in her body, her voice low but steady, "and this is what you manage?"

A thin smirk cracked his lips, too. Without a word, his left reached out to the wall over her shoulder, and touched it. The floor beneath her started skidding downward, as a sudden brightness assaulted all her senses. Losing her balance with the sudden incorporeal attack, her hand shot out, and she grabbed his upper arm. The thin smirk grew wider, wilder, as his eyes glinted. She almost took a step back.

The platform smoothly sat into its nest with a soft thud. Over his shoulder, her eyes locked on another man's soft brown eyes, as he stood tall in the middle of an enormous but empty white hall, looking at them with an impassive face.

Her hand dropped as he craned his neck to follow her gaze. "Alfred," he acknowledged the man, turning aside, then he held her arm and walked them to the older man, "The scanner is ready?"

Well, she had never expected proper introductions but that was plain rude. She looked at Wayne, as the butler seized her for a moment, calculations going behind his eyes. "It's turned on," the man answered, his eyes were still fixed at her, "but there is still a fifteen minutes before it's fully charged." He finally turned to his employer, and she felt glad. His eyes were making her feel uncomfortable, and the last thing she needed was to feel more uncomfortable than she was already.

Nodding at the butler, Wayne led her toward the end of the massive hall, where a structure close to a field hospital was stationed. There was no red cross over it, of course, but she didn't know what else she would call a place that had a CAT scanner inside. It wasn't even the oddest thing with the place. She had expected some kind of headquarters, where he ran his—operations, but aside a few broken, out-of-date equipment and tools that were scattered around, the place was empty; not as wasted as above, but still devoid of life. Perhaps it had once, but not anymore.

Suddenly she realized he had brought her one of his hideouts; smart. And she appreciated the gesture, really, no need to get things more personal. They were already _enough. _She would lie low here until she got back to her feet, planning her next move. Apparently she couldn't stay in Gotham anymore, even though she had still no idea where else she would go, especially the only thing she had over her back was a coat that didn't even belong to her.

Well, they would see about that later.

Inside the infirmary, next to the CAT scanner, there was a medical bed. Her eyes almost watered as soon as they fell on it, sob-laughter escaping from her mouth. She kicked the wet shoes off again, and climbed on the bed. Her head hit the pillow, her smile growing; a featherbed and cushions...the civilization, she thought she would never see it again. Her eyes closed... "Don't sleep," he warned sharply, his voice coming above her head. Her eyes snapped open. He was looking down at her, his eyebrows clenched in displeasure, holding a clean set of pajamas. She stared at him. "Alfred brought you clean clothes," he explained, walking closer to the bed. Her gaze shifted down toward the said items on his hand, a brief hesitance entering in his body language for the first time in the entire day, "Can you manage it yourself?"

She still stared at him, as if she had heard him wrong. Then her lips drawn out with a thin smile, "Are you gonna help if I can't?"

In answer, his eyebrows tightened further. The next, he threw the clothes at the bed next to her, and turned around. He walked to his butler. Rolling her eyes with a silent laugh, she shook her head, and immediately regretted it. Heaving a sigh out, she straightened in the bed, then her eyes caught a better look of PJs, and she lost all the sense in the world. She started laughing, because she felt if she hadn't she would have started crying instead. Her body shook with her laughter, and the action was like a nail drilling through her temples, but it didn't matter. So little things were mattering now. Both men turned and looked at her, eyes equally narrowed, almost in a wary confusion. "You brought me _his_ PJs?" she asked to the older man, her hand waving toward at Bruce Wayne.

The butler gave her a hard look, "It's hard to find open shops that sell lingerie at the six in the morning, missus," he snapped.

She stopped, her eyes drawing to dark fume nightwear, trimmed with black satin, then shrugged. "Fair enough," she said, reaching out to the pajamas. "Hope they're at least clean," she muttered under her breath then with the corner of her eyes she caught Wayne's departure. Her head snapped up, "_Where_ are you going?" she called after him, as he walked to the platform, words pouring out of her in a sudden rush. He couldn't leave her here.

He turned, his eyes darkening as if he didn't appreciate being questioned. Perhaps she shouldn't have done that last jab. "I need to fix the security footage from the warehouse where you took refuge," he answered after a while, his eyes seizing hers, "If your kidnapper has called Riley, his men are going to look for you."

The simple words brought her back to the reality, the situation they faced returning with full force. She turned her eyes away, nodding, truly understanding it had _just_ begun. "Stay in," her eccentric _protector _ordered for the last, "I will come back."

Her face setting, she looked at his retreating back.

* * *

Walking to Lamborghini, Bruce heaved a sigh, wondering where this would end. If Riley had sniffed her in the air...things would get even uglier. The youngest son of Sean Riley had taken the mantle from his father after the Irish mob boss had been taken into custody under the Dent Act three months ago, and ever since he had been trying to prove his worth to his opponents and his allies alike. The underworld was a hard place to survive. If you wanted to be taken seriously, you needed to be respected and feared at the same time, and "Cameron Reese" could give the young man the opportunity he had been craving; a chance to get back to Batman.

Stepping in the car, he almost cursed; he had really thought the problems would have ended once he found her, but things had turned even more complicated. And Cameron... he frowned, and immediately corrected his mind, _Valerie_, he wasn't dealing with Cameron Reese here, not even close. His memories of the lawyer had been always fuzzy, only tidbits from there and here, but this woman was different, closer to the woman in the video footage, the one who could choke a police officer out. Somehow it was relieving to find out he had been right about her, like a part, a pivotal part of a puzzle had been solved even though the whole picture was still unclear. Even with the fake name, she was still a mystery, but at least the _situation_ was less—mysterious.

Taking the high road, he drove back to the cave. The warehouse at the Gullian port was belonging to Markell Paper's Gotham branch, their former storehouse for the shipments they had from South Africa, abandoned, but still not forgotten. It still had electricity, telephone lines, so he knew the security cameras were also still intact. He needed to erase her trace for good before the new day started and the day shift started taking a direct interest what had happened last night. For the night shift, a break in the abandoned warehouse might be a regular occurrence, but when the news started flowing out... He couldn't take that risk.

Ten minutes after, he was back in his _real_ home, charging up the stations. Markell Paper was a company in the open market, so to get into their servers; he decided to use the front door. He pulled up a one of his shell companies that had its headquarters in Virgin Islands, and started buying a small percent of shares. Fifteen minutes later, he was a small partner of the company. Another fifteen later, he was asking the company's balance sheet as a shareholder. At the end of the hour, he was inside the servers.

He surfed through the database and found the security databases. He quickly calculated the possible time tables, and opened the file between four and five a.m. for the warehouse. What he noticed first was a quick, deft shadow moving through the dark, but it was impossible to follow her movements as that part of the warehouse weren't lighted. He hit fast-forward, and picked the management office camera's footage; then there she was, in the light, in even worse shape than when he had found her passed out over the couch.

She closed the door, and rested her back on it, shivering, he could see her shivers even though the screen. She was wet, she had been wet too when he had found her, but next to this drenched figure, that had been nothing. Her arms were full of toilet paper, a few unopened coats, and her wet clothes; therefore the mystery of her fashion choice had become apparent. Her face was caked with mud and blood, as her hands and legs. Her hair was clogged with dirt and mud. He remembered the address she had given for the accident and understood that she had had to walk almost two miles to find the warehouse district in the chilling winter air and rain.

On the screen, she started sacking the office, to find her loot; the landline, a few cookies and sugar, and the bathtub in the corner. Ah. Her eyes shone when they fell on the shower, and she hurriedly took off the coats.

Stuck at the moment, Bruce stared at the screen, his reaching out to the keyboard. He hated this part of the surveillance. It made him feel like pervert, instead of an agent for the truth and justice, seeing people at their most private, intimate moments. Usually, he fast-forwarded those parts, unless he became suspicious that the intimacy was a ruse to cover up something else. He wanted to cut the feed this time, too, but somehow his hand didn't move further. Her body—it was slender, defined with smoothly toned muscles, but what had taken his interest wasn't the lithe athletic body; no, it was the condition of it. Across her back, a bruise was running, possibly from where her back had hit the wheel, and her rib looked swollen. He understood now why she had stirred and winced on her seat all the way to the bunker. But she had hardly made a noise. He knew she was in a bad shape, it was quite clear, but he hadn't expected that much, either.

He reached out to his phone, and sent a message to Alfred regarding on her injuries. He had made the right choice bringing her to the bunker. His first priority had been the CAT scanner, and the make shift hospital of sorts he had built there for himself after his fall, but he also hadn't wanted to bring her to the manor. The cave was of course out of the question, she had no place in here, but the manor... he didn't know, he had felt they both would have felt more at ease at the bunker; less personal. He had liked the place enough during the time he had used it as his base, but it had never been his home.

On the screen, she stepped out of the shower, and patted herself dry with papers, and put on the coats again. She found the first-aid kit, too, and tried to bandage her rib, but with limited resources there weren't many things she could do. She then walked to the couch, and laid down on it.

She stared at the ceiling, he could see her brain run wildly, clearly assessing her options. She passed a tired hand over her wet hair, huffed, her eyes still fixed on the ceiling. She shook her head, as if she was fighting with herself, and perhaps she had been. Then she reached out to the phone on the desk.

Bruce watched her as she made the call. Even though he couldn't hear her, he could still see her body language, the conversation they had shared last night on the loop in his mind; _I need your help... the bottom line is you owe one... I don't have anywhere else to go..._ There was hesitance in her figure, and fear, but also determination, as if she had made her decision, and there was no going back now.

He closed the file, and extracted it from Markell's databases, and stored it in his servers. There, the last night had been erased away, only existing for them now.

He called Alfred then. "How is she?" he asked as soon as Alfred picked up the line.

"Better," his former guardian answered, voice impassive. Alfred wasn't happy with the current situation, but Bruce hardly could blame him for that. "I scanned her, she seems clean. I forwarded the results to Lucius. He consulted Ms. Thompkins, she said it was fine, she's hurt, but no concussion."

Bruce barely held a sigh. Leslie Thompkins was an old friend of his father, together with Fox, and Alfred had been having an off-the-record consultancy with her via Fox since his fall. Bruce knew it was becoming dangerous, the good doctor was becoming a security risk, but Alfred was hearing none of it. "_She_, on the other hand, had a field day when she understood I called Fox," Alfred continued.

Bruce raised his eyebrows. He knew she and Fox had a rocky relationship during her time in Wayne Enterprises; instead of coming directly to him, she had gone to Fox for blackmail. That was another thing he couldn't understand. Why Fox, but not him? "I sedated her."

"_What?_" He hadn't heard Alfred wrong, right?

"She has a fever," Alfred defended his action, "She needs rest."

Bruce almost heaved another sigh, the day turning in his mind. "Keep her in line," he said, "It's worse than she pretends. Her rib is hurt. Check that, too."

"How do you know that?" Alfred asked, confusion and wariness clear in his voice, like he already knew what Bruce had done.

But he answered anyway, "I found the footage."

There was a brief silence over the line, then Alfred asked, "Her kidnapper?"

Bruce frowned, that was the tricky part. "He's still in coma," he answered. For now, they were clear of that trouble, but when the man woke up... Batman would need to show up.

"And the Irish family?"

Bruce shook his head, even though Alfred couldn't see it. "I don't know," he admitted, his voice straining, "_Yet._"

Another brief pause, "What do you have in mind, sir?"

Bruce stood up, "A visit to our friend in the hospital."

* * *

Around the noon, Bruce Wayne was in the deep cover.

Hopkins Medicine was a flourishing private clinic at the Gotham's outskirts. Under the new Wayne healthcare reform, Daniel Braden had been brought to the clinic at six in the morning, comatose. His room was in the south wing of the compound, and Bruce had been mopping its corridor since that morning.

Leaning against his mop, he slowly staggered on his bad leg, as if moving the long mop was the most demanding job in the universe. He was clad in the hospital's anonymous whites, his face unrecognizable in a white mask, his shoulders sagged, nowhere close to the infamous Bruce Wayne. As he paced back and forth, the mop dragged behind him, he was alert to every sound around him.

It was a slow Sunday in the hospital. Two nurses were making the routines before noon, one holding a tray full with medicine in her hands, as the other held the charts. They closed to the room at the end of the corridor, where Braden was currently taking residence. Swiftly, he made his way over, his eyes watchful under his bowed head, his ears keen. As the nurses entered the room, he caught a glance of the man as he was sleeping. Valerie had been lucky, but the man hadn't. His head was in bandages, like the most of his body, as his leg was hung in the air inside a cast. He couldn't find any footage for the accident, but from the state of him, he could still see the extent of the accident.

The move was something Batman would have done, but still it troubled Bruce further; she was unpredictable. Especially when she was cornered.

He lingered outside the room as the nurses checked the kidnapper's situation, then he saw them, lurking at the other side of the corridor; with crew-cuts, and tattoos, and rings, dressed in leather; eyes searching thoroughly every presence in the wing. His back straightened on reflex as soon as his eyes fell on the Irish thugs, but he forced himself to relax, and waited until the men crossed the corridor. As he had suspected, the men stopped in front of Braden's room. The next moment, the nurses emerged from the room.

The young nurses took a step back as the men walked in on them, eyes fixed on the young women. "Uh—" one of the nurses asked, voice demure, but still wary, "How can I help?"

The taller of the duo pointed behind their back. "Our friend—we heard he had an accident last night," he said, "How is he?"

The nurses exchanged a look. "He's...your friend?"

The Irish men didn't miss the look exchange. Bruce moved behind the girls, checking the men under his bowed head, his hands clenching around the mop. "Yeah," the taller answered again, "Why? Is there a problem?"

"Uh—I don't know," she took a turn to left, her friend on her heels, "You should talk to the police."

"The police?" the other man repeated, holding the woman's upper arm. Bruce moved closer, his back stiffening even more, ready to lash out, as the other nurse held the man's arm too, "Sir, what are you doing?"

The man dropped his hand. "I'm just trying to find about my friend," he answered, his hands rising in the air, open palm, "Is he okay?"

"He's sleeping," the nurse answered, voice snappish, "in the coma. I'm sorry, but we can't say more." They tried to move away again, but the men reacted the same.

"The police?" the tall one questioned again, his voice taking on a hint of malicious intent. The nurse swallowed, Bruce tightened his fingers further around the wooden stick to keep himself from breaking the man's arm in three places.

"He—he was handcuffed to the wheel when they found him in the car." The nurses broke off after her statement, and this time Riley's lackeys let them go. The tall one took his phone out of his pocket. "Boss, we found our guy in a hospital," he talked fast, explaining the situation, "Had a car crash."

There was a brief silence, then he answered, "Probably escaped," he huffed, "Danny-boy was handcuffed to the wheel. He was saying she was slippery."

The man nodded, "Will do." He closed the phone, and turned to his companion. "Come on, boss wants us to check the accident scene. She couldn't have gone far." His eyes slid to Braden's room, "We'll talk to him once he wakes up."

His eyes darkening, Bruce watched them as they walked away, his jaw clenched, his knuckles turning white. The sharks had already sniffed blood in the water.

* * *

When he was back after midnight, she was sleeping, almost peacefully, still clad in his pajamas. Slowly he sat in a chair in front of her bed, his eyes stuck on her. At that moment, in that position, she looked eerie, too pale, too fragile, nothing like the woman he had been watching for months. It was hard to believe that figure would have caused so much destruction, but she had. He had _really_ believed this all would have ended once he had found her, but he clearly realized now it had just begun. His eyes swept over her, and found Alfred's as the older man studied him closely. He leaned his head back, his eyes closing to escape from Alfred's inquisitiveness, or her fragile yet catastrophic figure, he wasn't sure. "You know what's funny, Alfred," he said slowly, "In all the time I was looking for her, I never really thought how it would be when I found her," he confessed, then lifted his head, his eyes opening, "And now she's found me," a small bitter smirk pulled out his lips, acerbic in irony, "and we're stuck with her."

From the other side of the bed where she lay in between them, Alfred shook his head, "Master Bruce, you should talk to Commissioner Gordon," he advised, voice stern, not moving an inch, "He could help you."

"Help me how, Alfred?" he almost snapped, "Soon all mobs in Gotham will be after her trail. Gordon can't protect her on his own." Alfred opened his mouth, but he didn't let him talk. "Besides, she called _me_, not Gordon. She escaped from him." He shook his head, "No, Alfred, this is between her and me." His eyes drew to her again. "It always has been."


	7. Part III-I

**PART III **

**Part III.I – "Second chance"**

* * *

For the rest of the week, Bruce Wayne kept his distance. She passed the week in and out of consciousness burning with fever, so she didn't particularly care, either. In fact, she was even glad. She knew soon they would need to see each other a _lot_. Though, she had tried a few times to question her babysitter, but it was impossible to crack up the older man. He was an odd man. He spoke with a gentlemanly English accent, words measured and careful, and he was always respectful, with a hint of satirical humor, but there was an enduring stance in his resolve. He reminded her mountains, old and abiding, a permanent figure in the rush of todays. His figure seemed even more intimidating in the middle of the storm beating them above the ground. The storm had begun last night, and hadn't stopped since then.

He set up her light dinner on the hospital tray as a thunder stuck, and slid it over her. She straightened in the bed, and rested her back against the cushions. She looked at the chicken soup. "When Wayne's coming up?" she tried another time, taking her spoon, "I need to talk to him."

The butler turned and walked to the counter in the infirmary to prepare her meds. "He will come tonight," he answered, turning back again, in his hands a small tray, "He's been engaged with—" a brief pause, she looked at him in question, "other things," the man completed. Ah. _Other things._ Like beating the criminals into a pulp with his bare fists. It was still hard, very hard to believe that fact, but as of the moment it was the last thing she needed to think of. She could deal with Bruce Wayne. He was tensed and strained like a stringed bow, guarded like Knox Fort, and wary like a predator, but if _that _man was the real Bruce Wayne, she had no idea how his alter persona would be. Frankly she had no desire to find out, either. Things were enough fucked-up as already they were. She wasn't sure if she also could deal with that. Funny enough, Bruce Wayne seemed to think so, too.

Cathleen hadn't raised a stupid for an orphan, so she clearly understood what he had been trying to do keeping his distance. They were treading in uncharted territories, full of broken shards of glass, every step watchful and calculated to control the damage. And it was what they had been doing; they were controlling the damage. Her eyes skipped over the wall where an oval shape wall-clock hung on, and on the reflected glass surface, she saw her reflection. Valerie; sexy, carefree, tough girl in the deep shit; just Valerie.

_The pub was at the corner of the street. Her head high, she walked in. Her eyes quickly spotted the back exits and windows at first, and swept over the clientele, assessing the place, and decided it was the one she was seeking. She then spotted her mark, the guy behind the bar._

_"__You know, I didn't catch your surname, pretty," Johnny asked over the third glass of scotch, leaning toward her over the counter, his hand playing a wisp of her hair over her shoulder, twirling it around his finger. She only smiled. "What?" he asked, laughing, "It's just Valerie?"_

_She nodded, pulling back, and took up her glass. "Yeah, just Valerie," she said, bringing the glass toward her lips, a smile breaking, "Name and title in one." She looked at him under the bowed head. "You'll see."_

Coming out of the memory, she saw herself again on the reflected glass. That day she hadn't offered to Johnny anything other a name because the last thing she needed was an entitlement. When you were a name, you were just someone; a one of millions, but when there was a title attached to it, then you were no longer just someone, you were...identified. That was her first mistake. All of her life, she wanted to establish that fact; she wanted to be a person, not just someone born into an orphanage, but a real person.

Her former identities passed through her mind. Cecile Donovan had been young, thinking she could do everything. Felicia Bale had been a hurricane, ready to challenge the world to take what she wanted. Cameron Reese was hell-bent to get her happy ending. Once she had tried to be Sarah, just someone of regular millions, but it hadn't worked out. Now, there was nothing in the world she desired more. She wanted to be anonymous. She wanted to slip through the cracks of the worlds and never be found again. _Be_ c_areful what you wish for_, Jason used to warn her, _because you may get it._

She had wanted recognition, and now she got it. No one would ever forget her again.

Tears threatened to break out, and she bit her inner cheek to keep them at bay. She was stuck. It didn't matter where she was, someone would find her sooner or later, how Danny had, then she was done. She shook her head defiantly, her face setting. She wasn't going to let that happen. She couldn't let _them_ win. She always found a way out. She shook her head again, muttering, "God, I need a drink." Then she noticed her hands trembling, "I really need a drink," she repeated louder.

Alfred turned to her, his eyebrows tightened in that way she had also seen in Bruce Wayne's features; eyebrows pulled with suspicion and wariness, eyes narrowed with a keen inquisitiveness. Again, she wondered about who were all these people for real. Because the old man was just a gentle old butler as much as Bruce Wayne was just an eccentric billionaire. "You shouldn't drink because of your injuries," he told her, voice stern, leaving no place for any argument.

But she _really_ needed a drink. "Correction," she shot back, fisting her hand around the thin blanket to stop the tremors, "I should drink just because of them." He gave her another look, patently Wayne-household brand. She huffed, heaving out a loaded sigh, "Come on," she said, fixing her eyes at him, "You've seen me naked—" His eyes sharpened. She broke out a thin smile. She must have not acknowledged the fact that her rib had been dressed and her injuries had been cleansed, but it didn't mean that she hadn't noticed. "At least buy me a drink."

His lips finally loosened, a faint smirk reflecting back, "I'll ask Master Wayne to bring in a bottle."

"Thanks," she cooed, smarmy voice was a mock of gratitude.

* * *

True to Alfred's words, Wayne returned before the midnight, bringing her present with him. As soon as her eyes noticed the bottle, she straightened in the bed, her eyes eagerly on the amber liquid. Then she lifted them up at him. "Macallan 21?" she asked, tilting her head aside, as he walked to the counter to fix her a drink, "You certainly know to charm a girl, Mr. Wayne."

He turned, and for a moment, she had seen the old Bruce Wayne she had known; with sly smirks and boyish charms and all. As the old butler left them alone, Wayne walked back to her, and offered her the glass. "My pleasure, Ms.—" he shot back sardonically, but then stopped, the sudden look vanishing off his face, leaving its place his usual bland starkness. "You didn't give me a surname," he remarked.

She took a sip from her glass, "Didn't notice I needed to."

He merely looked at her without a comeback.

Shaking her head, she took another sip. "Look, when you're Bruce," she tried to explain, "you're just a Bruce, but you're Bruce Wayne, you're _the_ Bruce Wayne. You're singled out." She lowered the glass on her lap, her eyes drawing out, "and the last thing I want now is being singled out."

Even her eyes turned away, she could sense his gaze on her. "But you are," he rasped out.

Her jaw clenched, she nodded, but didn't speak further. Speaking the truth out loud always made things harder. And this time it was no exception, either. _Truth hurts_, she passed in her mind, before she bottomed up the rest of the amber liquor. The hot burn of scotch charred her throat, but the familiarity also soothed her frayed senses. "Danny," she asked finally, returning to him, "How is he?"

"Still sleeping," he answered then took a pause. The brief pause stretched out, filling the air with an ominous tense gloom, the storm still raging outside, and she asked despite she knew what was coming next.

"They found out, didn't they?" she asked, "Riley knows I'm blown out." Wordlessly, he nodded. Her face set off, the implications of that fact clear in her head. She wasn't just singled out, she was also stuck. "I should have let that bastard bleed to death there," she bit out bitterly, shaking her head.

Wayne's eyes glinted like a razor. "Why you didn't?" he rasped out, sharp eyes searching.

She looked back at him with the same sharp edge, "Because I'm an idiot."

He shook his head slowly, bowing it slightly, "You did the right thing."

The words were spoken out soft, like a caress, she almost didn't hear them. They were so simple, but the indications behind them were not. Right thing...most of times, right and wrong were a matter of point of view. From his point it would look like a right thing, but for her side it damn looked like a mistake, a deadly mistake. If Daniel talked...really, _really_ talked, then she was done, simple as that. "And I will pay for it," she muttered under her breath.

"Doing the right thing has always a cost."

Her head snapped at him with the sudden words. There were something in them, a ghost of something she wasn't sure; perhaps the ghost of the past. He didn't look like he was just talking about the _present._ The silence had started tensing again. She looked at him, suddenly at loss what to say. This was getting nowhere. She wished she had a place lined up to escape but that wasn't an option, either. Okay, whatever happened, happened, she told herself, turning her eyes away from him. No wish, no regret, no remorse could change the past now. _Time doesn't wait for anyone, don't look back_, Jason had also used to say whenever there was something he wasn't particularly pleased, _everything turns out the way it's suppose to._ The words now sounded to her caustically ironic, but it didn't mean he had been wrong.

Heaving a sigh, she looked at the wall-clock, time closing to midnight. Over the surface, there was her reflection again. She wanted to look ahead, in fact, at the moment there was nothing, nothing she wanted to do more. She just didn't know how she could, as long as she bore her stigma over her face; her face had become her bane. Another thunder roared down into the bunker, trembling down to the metallic structure. The clock shook and fell. Her eyes caught the broken shards, her reflection split into pieces; a sight almost impossible to recognize.

As another clap of thunder struck, a thought flashed in her mind. _If _she could really change herself, change herself from the beginning, remade herself from scratch, free from the ghosts of the past... She stared at her unrecognizable reflection. And she could do it, for real, if only she had courage, _and_ money. Her eyes still stuck, she asked to him, the storm howling outside, and somehow it suited. "Do you believe in second chances, Bruce?" His name turned unfamiliar around her tongue, as she understood it was the first time she'd used it since their first contact, "That a person can change?"

His eyebrows clenched into a frown, the crease above them deepening, "I don't know," he rasped out, suspicion tinting his voice, "Why do you ask?"

She turned to him, "Because I know how to end this."

* * *

She was talking but Bruce wasn't sure if he heard her correct. The words were clear, no hesitance in her voice now, the meaning still came short to his ear, because she couldn't say what she was saying; she simply could not. It was—he didn't know, he couldn't find a word in his vocabulary to express it; crazy? She stopped and looked at him, expectedly in an answer. He shook his head. "You're not serious," he said at last.

She let out a sigh, shaking her shoulders dismissively. "I don't see any other way out," she said in return, "I need a...changeover," she continued, the last word spoken out in thoughtfulness, "I can't manage it as long as I have _this_—" She passed her hand over her face, marking the words.

"Is it even possible?" he looked at her in suspicion, "I mean, you know it for certain, aside for rumors," he asked to clarify. Rumors were one thing, he had heard them a lot himself too, every now and then, rumors had it a mob boss altered his face, especially for the ones he had on their trails, but he had never casted any integrity in them. It was even surreal now talking about this with her.

She, on the other hand, shrugged again in that devil-may-care attitude. "Not in the sense of you speak of," she said, "Not a sci-fi trope, real things; microsurgery, tissue transplantation and expansion. Not an overall change, but—reconstruction," she halted for a second, trying to find the suitable words, "Like creating a sibling, or a close relative, not the same but...familiar."

He still thought it was crazy, so he told that, "It's crazy."

She shook her head agitatedly, leaning toward him over the bed, "It's _desperate_," she shot back, then stopped, and let out a breath, as if she had just understood what she had confessed. He guessed she was right. What she was saying was crazy, but also desperate. _Desperate times call desperate measures, _passed in his mind. But were they really _that _desperate? The answer to his own question didn't comfort Bruce, not a bit. "Look, I know it sounds crazy," she started after a while, heaving a sigh out, "but I really don't see another way to get out of this. And we must. I might have thought of it before but it needs money." She paused again to give him a look, which clearly told him where exactly he stood in her plan. "We can create an identity from the scratches, but people know _me_, my face, nothing else is enough now, you know it," she defended her action plan stubbornly. "After the operation, I'll leave America. No one will ever see me around here again." She looked at him pointedly. "You won't have to deal with me again."

He looked at her in silence. Letting her go... He wasn't sure how he could do that. How he could trust her with that while she held all of his life in her hands? She looked back at him as if she understood his hesitancy. "If I would betray you, I could have already done it," she said slowly, her voice like she had said, bordering on desperation, but still edge with frustration, "Past cannot be changed, but it can be remade," she intoned fast, words pouring out of her in her crazed rush, "I _just_ want another chance!" she cried out.

In the dark corridor of his mind, his words echoed... _He wanted to prove that even someone as good as you could fall. _And his voice answered, _and he was right._

Then was replaced by her words; _do you believe in second changes, that a person can change?_

And then he heard _his voice, _the nameless voice, only an alias, madness and malice tinting it red; _see, madness, as you know, is like gravity: all it takes is a little push!_

He stood up, "I'll think about it," and said before turning to leave.

* * *

The next day went through a blur. Bruce tried to stay focus on his work, all the while thoughts and distant voices running in his mind in a loop. Around the noon, Fox dropped by, bringing the papers for his new fund; he was adamant burn through the money until all the traces of the clown had entirely wiped off of Gotham, the Mayor had also accepted. The Bruce Wayne Foundation. It was going to bring on the change Gotham needed to, another chance.

_I just want another chance, _the words rung in his ear. He shook his head, the words in front of vanishing. It was getting pathetic, _he_ was getting pathetic. "Alfred told me about what she proposed," Fox said suddenly, his eyes suspicious drawn as he looked at him, "But he didn't say anything about your answer."

The words were subtle, but Bruce still got the gist of it, but he didn't back down. He threw down the papers in his hand, and fixed his eyes at his collaborator and friend, "Subtlety has never been your strongest point, Mr. Fox," he said, and demanded, "Out with it."

"All right—" Fox took a deep breath and began as if he had been waiting for this opportunity for a long time, "You're flirting with a disaster here," he told him plainly, his voice taking a notch on the word "flirting". Bruce frowned. "Send her back to Gordon," Fox continued.

Ah, Gordon again. He shook his head. "No. Gordon can't protect her by himself."

"He's the Police Commissioner," Fox shot back, walking closer to his desk. "Besides, she doesn't seem in need of any protection. She seems to do quite fine all by herself."

He shook his head again, "She needs help."

"She _needs_ shackles," Fox retorted relentlessly, his voice heated. Bruce wondered how long he had waited to say that, how many talks he had shared with Alfred. He turned his head away. The last five months had been hard each of them, and he hadn't made things any easier for neither of them. His old friend took a deep breath, cooling himself, but then started again, his tone now collected, "I know how you feel—" He turned his attention back to him sharply, "—but you have to stop dwelling in the past. You have to move on."

Bruce stared at Fox, and the older man stared back, but it was him that broke contact first, turning his eyes away, "It doesn't have anything to do with it," he said, the words coming out like a lie even to his own ears.

And Fox didn't buy it, expectedly. "Yes, it does," he pressed further, "You don't just think of her. You think of him. Send her back to Gordon."

"No." Bruce stood up and left the room. He wasn't sending her to Gordon. He wasn't sending her back out of the world, either, as she had suggested. No, she wasn't going away. If that was a second chance she wanted, then a second chance, she was going to get.


	8. Part III-II

**Part III. II – The Bargain**

* * *

It was time to act. The storm from the earlier day was still going on, heavy rain drops clashing on his armor furiously, the wind speed closing on 60 mph. Up at the roof he had taken cover across the warehouse where a team of highly equipped Irish thug and Riley were waiting for their last shipment, things were even worse for Bruce. The airborne sprays were reducing his visibility almost to nothing, even the fiber-glass protector over his eyes was no help. He outstretched his arm in the air with a practiced ease, his hand spread, facing at Riley, then pointed with two fingers; 70mils. Acquiring the range of his target, he took the spotting scope from his utility belt, and started with other calculations. The wind speed had already passed sixty; 61.2 mph; he also rechecked the range with his rangefinder, and saw that his calculations had been on the mark. Though, it didn't mean anything as he couldn't use his cape in this weather to glide over in the sky to the spot he had estimated to get the newly Irish boss.

He was going to have to do it in the traditional ways.

Raising the binoculars to his eyes, this time he surveyed the whole perimeters. Scattered around the warehouse, there were five men, armed with semi-automatic guns, two of them also carrying three salivating dogs as it was norm in these days for the protection against the Batman. The Gotham mobs had been always easy to adapt. There was also one man with a machine gun, carrying ammo in his pocket vests. The guards weren't a problem, but the machine-gun was problematic, so as the dogs. But at least, there was no sniper nest. Bowing his head, he called Alfred, "Alfred, trackers?" he questioned.

"All clean," Alfred answered, "No police in your vicinity, sir."

Gordon had warned him that the police snipers were out, and as soon as he was sighted on, they would be open in the field, and he had no power to stop them, either. Though, to halt them the commissioner was doing all he could do. Bruce was aware of the pressure that the Mayor had been putting on the older man's shoulders for not being able to bring in Harvey Dent's killer to the justice. His mood souring even more, his teeth gritted at each other.

Above his head, the wind hastened. "Master Bruce," Alfred started, updating him, "the wind speed is approaching to 65 mph. The NWS just reported that they're waiting a tornado, too." He paused for a second. "Perhaps you should try another time," he suggested, voice uncharacteristically hesitant. Bruce knew the reason of the hesitance. "This can wait."

No, it could _not._ He had decided, and he needed to act now.

Riley had to understand Cameron Reese was off-limits. He couldn't stop the mob bosses, not now, not when the cat was out of the bag, but he could at least buy her some time. "Alfred, cut the circuit coming to the warehouse," Bruce ordered, pretending he hadn't heard what the older man had said. He wasn't being fair to Alfred, he knew, was asking too much, but never offering anything in return, but they were family. Alfred was his only remaining family, but still it wasn't fair to the older man. Perhaps she could help him with that, too, Bruce thought, his eyes sweeping over the perimeters, she was capable, evidently had some kind of training. The rest, he would teach her. She seemed to be a quick study... It would be a fair bargain.

It had to work... There was more to her than what she pretended. All of her options, she had called _him_.

The warehouse below him turned to dark, as Alfred informed him through their wireless, "Done, sir."

Bruce didn't wait any longer. Blocking all other thoughts, he focused on the task ahead, letting Batman take the control of the situation. There was no use with getting another update on the situation, though. The storm was still roaring; no adjustments would do any good to him now. So he opened his arms to the sides, run the electrodes over his gloves, activating the memory-shape cloth, and dived into the storm freestyle.

He pressed a button in his cowl, and activated mil-dot reticle over the lens that covering his right eyes for the trajectory to thread in the sky as best as he could, gliding over the storm. The weather was a disadvantage, but it was a disadvantage for his opponents, too. And lights out, darkness and element of surprise were on his sides. Spotting the Irish men with infra-red projector, he folded his arms, and dived down fast, and prepared himself on a rough landing, coming in hot.

The element of surprise, even in the darkness, could only work for a while; the mobs of Gotham were also always a quick study. As soon as his feet touched the ground, the machine gun went off. With quick reflexes, and practiced ease, he pulled out a shuriken shaped-as-bat and threw at it at the man's hand as the same time he rolled over the ground, taking cover behind a medium-size metal crate. The machine gun stopped, the man's howls of pain mixing with the rage of the storm.

"Bats!" someone yelled above the storm, "Bats is attacking!"

Then everything was in chaos. The gunshots were coming from everywhere, with no real marksmanship whatsoever. They weren't shooting blindly in the air, though. No, the wind was just distorting their aims as it had distorted his owns plans. "Stop! Stop!" someone of their company shouted, Bruce poked his head out over the edge of the crate, "It's no use—" the man lifted his head at the sky, "Come on, Bats, can't you take a day off?" he yelled, "We wanna go home. This storm is like hell."

"I'm the _hell_!" Batman shouted back, charging toward the man. The gunshots bounced back from at his armor, as his hand grabbed the man. Holding him tightly at the neck, he threw the mobster at one of his friends, tackling both of them on the ground. Someone barked out, then the dogs were leashed out. One grabbed him at the leg, another bit his arm, while the last one was bouncing on his back paws violently, barking at him. He was fucking hating dogs. He clutched one that was around his arm at the back of its neck, while a gun shot hit the one hanging in his armored leg under his belly. The dog dropped dead on the ground. Enraged more, Bruce threw the other away, as the last one backed down under the gunshot. He took a hold of the man closer to him, breaking his wrist, and shot the man shooting at them from a safety distance at his legs twice, taking him out temporarily, while knocking out the one he was holding.

He took a flash bomb and clashed at the ground, and used the sudden blinding brightness to take out the rest of shooters. Then he saw Riley, looking at him at the edge of the threshold of the warehouse. He quickly held the man at his front, tying to his belt, then hoisted them up to the roof. Two minutes, he had two minutes before the SRT of the task force that had been set to capture Batman would arrive. But two minutes were more than enough to have a chat with Riley. After all, Batman was a man of action, not of words.

Closing to the edge of the roof, Bruce hanged the young boss in the air, still clutching the fur collar of his leather jacket tightly. "Cameron Reese!" he roared at the man above the storm, as a lighting stroke behind him, completing the whole scene divinely. The man's eyes grew to the size of saucers. "You think I wouldn't know!" Bruce barked out at the man's face, yanking him closer.

Despite of the heat of the moment, there was an acute pain in his arm where one of the dogs had bit his upper arm at the same place another of his species had beaten him. That was one of the problems with the dogs, too. Because of the body structure, they were able to attack him on at a few places; arm, leg, and neck; he was able to protect his leg and neck, but his arms were another matter as he was carrying much more weight now with the thin titanium leg bracelet. He pulled the man back to the roof, and threw him at the ground.

"She's not with me!" the young man shouted, sliding backward on his bottom as Bruce marched on in him, "One of my former called, said he had found her. The guy is in the hospital now, and she's—gone." His hand reached out in the air, as if to stop him, "I don't know where she is!"

Bruce grabbed the man at the throat again, and pulled him at his face. "You. will. stop. looking. her!" His voice was like a clap of thunder in the storm, "She's _MINE_!"

He dropped the man back at the ground, as soon as the words echoed in the night over the storm, his mind suddenly drawing blank. In his ear, Alfred was in silence.

* * *

When Bruce returned to the cave, Alfred already was waiting for him in front of his work station, _that _look all over his face. Wordlessly, Bruce started walking to his dressing cabinet, peeling the armor off with each step. Inside, he directly walked into the shower, and stood motionlessly under the hot jet of the water that chased away the winter chill outside together with blood, sweat, and dirt.

He stayed under the shower more than necessary, even after he washed his hair. He remembered the times he had used to hide from Alfred on his parents memorial's days, in the hopes that he would stayed undiscovered so no one would have looked at him at that way in the service. Though, he wasn't a child any more. He couldn't hide. His jaw clenching, he turned off the tap, and walked out of the shower. He didn't know what had made him utter those words. It was just—he had told it to Alfred before. This had been always between them; she was a problem; _his_ problem. Outside the cave, he sat on the bench where Alfred was waiting him, a needle already between his fingers. Over the course of last two years, Alfred had gotten used to this; as if patching him up every time he returned with an injury was expected.

Eyes keen, delicate fingers gentle, and steady, he started patching him up, his attention entirely focused on his upper arm, but to his ear, the silence was telling another story. "I can hear you thinking, Alfred. Just say it," Bruce said, almost with a defeated voice. He just wanted to get over it. It was how he had used to deal with those memorials, too. He only had been telling himself with each passing moment, he wouldn't have done it again for a year.

Steady, and practiced as they were, as he spoke, Alfred's hands still faltered. "Are you sure about this, Master Bruce?" he asked, his tone clearly indicating he thought it was indeed not. "This is a lot more than what you've bargained for."

He shook his head. All of this was a lot more than he had bargained for when he had decided he needed to do _something_ for his city. He had wanted to create an example, an idea, a symbol for the people of Gotham, to get them out of apathy, but instead he had had become to a scapegoat. He wasn't complaining. He had made his own bed, and he had no rights now to complain, he was going to be whatever Gotham needed him to be, but still none of it was what he had bargained for. "What else can I do, Alfred?" he asked in return, wincing slightly as Alfred put a little more pressure than necessary on the needle, "I can't send her away on her own."

Alfred's hands faltered again briefly, "Send her to Gordon," and he offered the same thing, "He can take care of her."

Bruce wasn't surprised, but he was getting tired. He shook his head again. "We've already talk that before. A lot," he added the last, his voice thinning a bit, "Gordon has already a lot on his plate. He can't deal with her too," he continued, "Besides, if someone learns he's hid her, then he'd be in the deep problem, likewise us." He looked up at him. "We can't risk that. No one else can handle the situation, but me." As soon as the words left his mouth, Bruce mentally cursed himself.

Alfred's hand halted again, giving him that look, then pulled the thread through his skin, "Because she's—_yours?_"

"It's not like that," he muttered, bowing his head toward his wound, mostly to avoid the older man's eyes, "I didn't mean it like that."

"Which way did you mean it then, sir?" he questioned.

He frowned, a bitter retort almost at the tip of his tongue, but this was Alfred. The only family he had left. "I meant that she's _my_ problem," he answered, the emphasized words uttered out slowly, pointedly, "my security risk."

Alfred finally relented, nodding slowly, "I know, Master Bruce, I know," he said, putting the needle on the counter, "I just want you to fully know the dangers."

"I do know them, Alfred." He stopped, his eyes skipping to left, where her photo still hung over the glass board, "This has to work, Alfred. Something good," he said slowly, his eyes on the picture, and repeated, "Something _good_ must come out of this."

Alfred closed his eyes, "Master Wayne—"

"No, Alfred…" Bruce cut him off, "To learn to pick ourselves up, we have to fall first."

Bouncing those words back to him didn't move Alfred as much as he had hoped; instead he looked sadly at him. "You can't save everyone, sir."

"She has potential, Alfred. For all the things she had done, when she believed she had run out of options, she called _me_. It couldn't be just because she believed I'm the lesser of the two evils." He shook his head, thinking what _she_ had said, "There is still hope for her. Someone needs to give her a second chance."

Alfred looked at him skeptically. "And do you trust her enough to do that?" he asked.

Did he? He didn't know. Trust was a leap over a chasm of belief, where many fell and perished... _He wanted to prove that even someone as good as you could fall... _But hope was bigger than life, and desperation was heavier than death. _I just want another chance_. If one push was enough to make someone fall, then one pull would be enough to raise someone else.

It must be, he told himself determinatedly. He had to believe that.

* * *

A mirror in her hands, Valerie studied her face. She hadn't been doing anything else since the last day. She had always liked her features; a long oval face cut with definite harsh angles, an open forehead set above it, lined with high cheekbones, a nose with the slightest tip that gave the whole structure a characteristic quality. Not a Barbie face; her chin was too pointed, her nose had arc, but they added to her a charisma. And if a certain billionaire said yes to her proposal, they all were going to turn to something else; something familiar but not the same.

Over the reflection, her gaze found her eyes; a light green that would turn into a yellowish light brown whenever she was upset. That would the same, always. But would she forget how she looked now after a time? Would the lines on her face be buried in a forgotten place in her mind, as just a memory from the past? She grimaced. She had no love for memories. They were fickle, always altered with nostalgia, whether it was bad or nice. Jason was always a wise voice in her mind. She was always happy with Michael, and equally miserable with Cathleen. She scowled, stopping her odd thoughts. This wouldn't do any good. She didn't do sentimental and she had already made up her mind. Stressing over decisions wasn't her. _Life goes on._

She was at least alone. Alfred hadn't still come in, and she was glad for the solitary. Bruce Wayne, on the other hand, was another matter. She couldn't read that man, couldn't understand him, couldn't understand what was going through his rather handsome head. He still made little sense. After she had learned he was what he was, she had thought of him somewhat insane, losing people affect everyone differently, but then he had saved her at the crash. Still, she hadn't known what to expect, what to expect from a killer. She knew she was the last person on earth who should justice anyone on morals, she was a confidence trick after all, but it was kinda nice to know that he was no better than her, too.

_Doing the right thing has always a price_, echoed in her mind. A justified killer, she had become sure of it, he had had to kill Dent and other police officers for something, she didn't know for what, but she was sure of it. And when she was sure of something, she tended to be right about it, too. God, she was really getting out of her depths here. She got up from the bed, and prepared herself a drink. The infirmary seemed like a home to her now. There were clothes scattered around, clothes Alfred had brought with him, and a few books and magazines to pass time. There was no other technological equipment; nothing would connect her to the outside world, she knew because she had searched, first thing she had done when she found herself alone. The white empty hall outside was devoid of life, the infirmary wasn't. There were signs of life, a warmness that a place would only acquire when it was used by people. Perhaps not frequently, but it had been still using before she crashed into their party. The room was also heated to a point that she had started wearing only a tank top with first three buttons opened over her pajama bottoms.

When she heard the platform's moving outside, she was pouring herself the second glass from the scotch. Instead of going back to bed, she walked to the armchair next to it, schooling her features into an air of indifference, and waited for the new arrival. Her expression was neutral; no trace of previous exasperation over her face, the practiced stoicism flawless.

Dressed in his elegant designer suit, Bruce Wayne appeared at the threshold of the infirmary, looking equally flawless; face relaxed and at ease, his manner not quite the spoiled filthy rich man covering the tabloids every day, or the gloomily brooding dark figure that she had seen a few glimpses since the time he had come to rescue her, twice. Somehow he looked in the middle of the wide spectrum now; more real and perhaps saner too.

At the threshold, he looked at her, announced rather unceremoniously, "I've decided."

Tilting her head side, she narrowed her eyes. Then she nodded. She folded her arms under her chest, a useful trick to burst out breasts, mostly to see how he would react. That was another thing that made little sense. There was this tension between them, thinning air with silences they drifted into, but something was lacking. She wished he had acted on it. It would make things easier. She knew how to deal with that.

But Bruce Wayne seemed to be adamant to proving himself being one of a kind. He didn't react to her free show. He didn't even glance. "I'll accept your offer on one condition," he said instead, his eyes fixed on her eyes.

She wanted to sigh but containing herself reconciled with waving a nonchalant hand. _There is always a price, kiddo, nothing comes free,_ Jason's wise voice spoke in her mind. Perhaps it would be better for both of them, the debts being settled. "Of course," she said in return, and looked back at him, waiting to hear what would be her price this time.

He walked into, and sat on the chair at the opposite of hers. "After the operation," he started, "you won't leave America—" He paused to look at her again, carefully eyes searching her to gauge a reaction. "You won't go anywhere. You will stay with me—" He halted again briefly, and added to clarify, "in the manor."

She looked at him, astonished. A whole minute passed before she was able to speak again. Then she burst out into laughter. "You're kidding, right?"

He shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous." Face sobered now, she bit off every word.

"If you refuse, I'll send you back to Gordon."

She narrowed her eyes into a challenge, as her tone dropped a tone down, "You wouldn't dare."

He gave her a pointed look as a comeback. It took a second his look sunk in. A second later, she exclaimed, her eyes widening, "He can't be your man inside." She half craned her head up at the ceiling. "For god's sake, he's the police commissioner."

He shrugged. "We came to a sort of understanding."

"He knows who you are?"

He shook his head in answer. Her eyebrows clenched into a frown. "And he's still willing to help you after—um—what happened?" she asked.

His face wasn't cheerful or anything before, of course, but suddenly it became like carved out of stone. "We came to a sort of understanding," he repeated gravely then leaned forward. "Don't look so shocked. Apart from you, the only people who know my secret—" He halted, a pained expression briefly crossing his face, "—are Alfred and Lucius Fox. Fox helps me with the technological equipment and designs but for anything else, I'm entirely dependent on Alfred. I need someone resourceful, smart, and capable; someone who can take out a police officer without blinking an eye." He looked pointedly at her, "Someone already knows who I am."

Despite the jab and the words, she smiled, a mocking thinning her lips. "That's very—kind way to tell me that you don't trust me on my own."

"Can you blame me?"

Unfortunately, she couldn't. Anything she had planned related in any way to Bruce Wayne had an annoying habit of getting out of control; especially out of hers. Since the day she had met him, her life had become a pitiful attempt for damage control. She wasn't like this; she was a force of nature; people around her reacted to her, not the other way around.

Then he leaned forward, his eyes fixed on hers, and captured her gaze. "You told me you want a second chance, and I'm offering it to you," he spoke heatedly, "This is a bargain."

The words rung in her mind, and she found herself asking, "What bargain?"

"Your silence and skills for my money and protection," he answered simply.

She stared at him wordlessly. This wasn't her… she was a force of nature… a tempest… a hurricane… Yet whenever it came to her versus him, she found herself in a position of a twirling leaf in a vortex, trying desperately to stay above the surface.


	9. Part III-III

**Part III. III – "What he believes"**

* * *

Eventually, she said yes. What else she could have done? She was stuck, _until_ she found a way out. She might have said yes, but at the end he didn't make a specific time requirement. She shook her head. Bruce Wayne had to learn run harder bargains.

After the operation, she could run away. The money was still a problem, but since she was going to _live together_ with a billionaire, she was sure she could do something about that. The only thing she needed beside the money was her stash. The last thought made her remember her box, too. She had packed it before the night the Joker had escaped, but had left it in her apartment while going to meet with Engels the next day.

Her lips hardened into a grimace, as something pinched her at the chest. In the last four years, she had tried to get rid of the Jason's trinkets more than a couple of times, so perhaps it was really the time to _finally_ leave him behind, just like he had done to her. But it wasn't just the trinkets. The box also had Michael's sea shell, and her mother's only photo, and she wasn't sure if she was ready to leave them behind. The photo was the only thing she had ever known about her mother; and the seashell...well, it was the only connection to a normal life she had ever had.

She shook her head, as if disgusted. She should have stashed them in the cache, like she had always done. She must be getting old, _sentimental_; letting the desire to keep things close cloud her judgment. The thought brought an ironic smile over her lips, Valerie the Sentimental. _Yeah._ But the police should have it now, they certainly must have checked her apartment, and Bruce had said the police commissioner was a friend...

As if he had heard her thought, she heard the hum of low machinery outside. This time she knew it was him, because he had told her last night he would come back the morning to take her to the manor. Apparently, she could no longer stay in the infirmary. She was almost glad; the whiteness of the bunker starting to get on her nerves, even though she had no idea what to expect from Wayne Manor. She knew it was a sort of castle that had been rebuilding when she had first arrived to Gotham. He must have completed it. Then he remembered that he was also supposed to be the one who had burnt it down to the ground in a drunken fit. That didn't seem like the man she had come to know, but who knows. The man was full of surprises.

He appeared at the threshold of the infirmary, his eyes taking a hold of her then momentarily halted over her figure. She realized since the warehouse it was the first time he had seen her without pajamas. She was wearing a thick leggings that would hold the winter chill back, most of her legs covered with flat knee-high boots in soft leather that kept her feet rather warm and comfortable. The wardrobe choice was Alfred's, and she had to admit that the old butler had a fashion sense with conformity.

"Are you ready?" he asked, his eyes moving away from her, when she looked at him, her eyebrow half-arched; half mocking half daring.

She reached out to take the Moncler down jacket from the armchair, making an amendment inwardly; Alfred didn't only have a fashion sense, he was a fashion genius, too. "Given that I don't have anything," she said, putting the down feathers jacket on, before turning to him, "that was kinda a stupid question."

He gave her a look, his lips flattened with something like annoyance, a look she had become habituated. "Let's go," he said after a second, turning to walk back out.

With a silent huff, she followed him. What a gentleman. They emerged out of the white hall in a silence that made her nervous. She decided it was a good time to bring up what she had been thinking what he had come in. She looked at him as they left the bunker, feeling even more nervous. For a moment, she wished she had stayed in the infirmary. She shook her head slightly, telling herself this new arrangement was only temporary. His eyes drew to her as he opened the Lamborghini's car. Okay, perhaps, the arrangement wasn't _that_ bad. Accordingly its name, the infamous sports car really looked like a bat, black and intimidating, quite fitting to its owner personality.

She slid in the passenger. "Speaking of _things_," she started slowly, turning to him then halted on the words. She didn't know how she should bring up the topic. Staring the motor, he looked at her in question. She decided to just get over it. "Do you know if the police searched my old apartment?" she asked directly.

His eyes narrowed as he took the car out of the park and drove toward the exit. "Why do you ask?"

She shrugged, though an unease was distorting the useless careless gesture, creating a strain at her shoulder. "There was something I was keeping," she said as vaguely as she could, "the police probably got it." She paused for a second, her eyes drawing to his, "I'd like to have it back."

For a split of second, his eyes found hers, too. "What thing?"

She swallowed, forcing herself to go on. It was her mother's photo, she couldn't let it go. "A metal box," she answered, "it's probably locked in an evidence room. You said Gordon and you have come to an understanding, so I was wondering if..." she trailed off, staring at him as he took the car out to the high road.

His attention focused on the road, he stayed silent, his eyebrows clenched in a way that was telling her that she had done something _again_. Her heart-beat started hastening. "The police don't have it," he said after a while. She closed her eyes, cursing inwardly. "I took it."

She thought she was going to throw up. "How?" she asked, because she didn't want to ask "why". "The police must have searched my house after I escaped from the safe house."

He shook his head. "Gordon halted the investigation on you when you disappeared because of your first deposition."

"Oh." The word left her mouth. She stopped and half-gulped, her throat suddenly dry, "So you've been looking for me." She had tried to make it as a statement, but somehow the words came out as a question.

He glanced at her, his eyes almost saying "really". She shook her head. "Okay, that was kinda a stupid question, too."

A faint smile pulled his lips in answer. They drifted into a heavy silence, loaded with questions. She half expected him to voice them, he had a good opening there; he must have seen what the box contained, but he kept his silence. She didn't speak, either, not until the intimidating castle-like building arose in front of her eyes over the windshield. She looked at the haunting figure in the newly dawn, the truth finalizing in her consciousness. There was a good possibility that she might never gotten out of this again. No! She protested inwardly, no. She had always managed before, and she was going to do it now, too. She looked at him, then broke the silence, "Bruce," she called him, "Can I ask you a question?"

He nodded.

"Were you really serious about what you've said," she asked, her own seriousness weighing the words with the gravity, "about...giving me a...second chance?"

Without a word, he nodded again in silence.

"Then don't search me," she demanded in return, "Don't try to find out who I was. Just accept who I am now."

He looked at her, and said in a low voice, as if he was giving out a secret only he knew, "Just Valerie."

And perhaps in a way, he was. "Just Valerie," so she affirmed, nodding back.

* * *

Her neck craned up, she watched the looming outline of the manor as it grew bigger and bigger with each step, until they had become small sized figurines at the front of the majestic entrance. After the driveway, the building had a cobblestone pathway that led to the wide staircase that _led_ finally to the main door. Upon the sight, she felt how she had felt when she had seen the Buckingham Palace the first time, essential people sitting on their thrones inside, making crucial decisions about them; regular millions. Along with the memory, she also remembered how much she had hated the sentiment; knowing that how much you tried, how hard you worked, you would have never been inside of those walls; your struggles, your efforts, your trials didn't matter. Because you didn't belong there; it wasn't simply in your _blood._

Her face souring, her mouth had a turn down; old money had always an easy way to make people despise them. On instinct, her eyes skipped toward the man walking beside her. She knew about Wayne family. They weren't some nouveau riche that had gained their family wealth during the 20th century. For generations, Waynes had always been at the heart of power, sitting on the throne. His forefathers were colonists that had fought next to Washington and Franklin in the Independence War. Where that left Bruce Wayne, she had no idea. He didn't look out of the place, no, he looked like he was walking to _home_, his pace had that unbind ease when you were around somewhere familiar, like the muscle memory had learned the way by habituation, but something was missing, an important thing she didn't know how to name. This was his home, and he was a Wayne, but she wasn't sure if he _really_ belonged there.

A misfit, she thought heaving a sigh, he was a misfit, and of course, she recognized that; takes one to know one, after all. The thought brought a sardonic smile at her lips, bitter in irony; Bruce Wayne and her, soul mates. A snicker escaped as she sniffed, her head shaking. His attention immediately turned to her.

In front of the wooden-metal door, he looked at her, his eyes demanding an explanation. "When do you think we can leave?" she questioned instead, turning her mind away from the last thoughts. The last thing she needed was adding a little bit more mystery to the puzzle that was Bruce Wayne. She had already enough problems without doing that.

His eyebrows tightened in his familiar fashion, a frown setting above them. "Leaving why?"

"For my operation, of course," she shot back, huffing, "what else?"

His frown deepened, "We still need to find a doctor who can do such an operation," he answered.

She shook her head, "no need," she said, but then hesitated. Christian had always been in her mind, but to lay out that information also meant to give him an opening; a crack that he would infiltrate. It was a risk, giving away something about her past, but when you wanted to move forward, some risks had to be taken. She would at least see if he had really meant his promise; that he wasn't going to search her. Understandably, she was having a hard time believing that. In the car, he had seemed serious, but no one would know for sure. "I know a doctor," she explained, as they passed through the main door, "A doctor in—" she took a small breath, and bit the bullet, "North Ireland," she gave out, as his eyebrows again clenched, the calculation running wild and fast in the green-brown eyes, "He used to take care of some..." she gave him a half-smirk, "_identity crisis _problems."

She looked at him, almost in challenge. Wordlessly, he looked back at her. God, it was stupid, staring at each other dumbly, but she couldn't move her eyes away, either, as if she was in some kind of trance.

"Master Wayne," suddenly she heard Alfred greeting the master of the house from her behind, and with the familiar voice, the moment broke. She whipped her head back at the older man. "Miss Valerie," Alfred called her formally, standing in front of the hall that led to the staircase for the second floor, "please this way," his waved over the staircase, "I prepared the main guest room for you."

Walking to the butler, she arched her eyebrow, "Main guest room?" she asked, letting out a laugh, "My, you certainly know how to charm a girl, gentlemen."

Both men stayed in silence for her retort. But she climbed up, she still felt the green-brown eyes on her, drilling through her back.

* * *

A couple of minutes later, Alfred returned to the main hall. "Is she settled in?" Bruce asked.

Alfred nodded. Well, it shouldn't be hard. As she had reminded him, she didn't have anything. Apart one thing. His head rising, his eyes found the corner of the main guest room's door. He was right. It meant something to her. He didn't know what, but something. He knew it in the same way he had been keeping his father's burned stereoscope and her mother's broken pearls. "The metal box," he told Alfred, "Give it back to her."

Bruce heard the older man's shallow breath, before he spoke, voice strained, "Master Bruce—"

Shaking his head, Bruce cut him off, turning to him. "Just give it to her, Alfred," he said, "It belongs to her." He started walking back to the door. He had an appointment with Fox and Ms. Tate for his new foundation, something he couldn't put off, not even for the new guest in his house, "I need to go to the Wayne Tower," he informed Alfred, and ordered, "Look into that doctor she mentioned," he continued, "We need to know who he is."

Alfred nodded, and hesitated before he asked, "She mentioned North Ireland," the older man remarked. Bruce turned to him. "Should I rearrange the search parameters into that?"

The question was tentative, his once guardian being wary as always. Bruce shook his head, and gave him the older man the answer he had been dreading off, "No," he said, "Leave it to rest."

This time Alfred inhaled sharply. "Master Bruce," he started protesting, but Bruce cut him off again.

"What else any research would tell us about her, Alfred?" he asked back, "We already know who she is." Alfred opened his mouth but he continued even before he could utter a word, "I've decided to give her a second chance, she asks another chance."

He knew Alfred would understand, the older man always said that he should give people another chance, but Bruce also knew where his loyalty lay the most. His eyes heavy, heavy with pain and grief, Alfred shook his head. "Do you really believe that, sir?"

Bruce let a deep breath out. At the end, that was the question. He took another breath in, spoke slowly, "I watched the ferry's footage after, Alfred," he started, the memories appearing over his eyes, "There was a guy in the ferry with the criminals; a big, intimidating guy. He was convicted for two murders. They –the guards and the convicts were talking about exploding the civilian ship, the survival of the fittest. They were going to do it. But the commander of the guard couldn't do. His hand hesitated. This guy came forward, he talked to the guard. He told the man he didn't know how to take a life, but he did. He told the man to give the trigger to him. He told him that he would say later he had taken it by force. The man did, gave the detonator to the murderer. And you know what the man did after then?" he asked, but answered his own question, "He threw it out of the window." He paused, heaving another sigh, remembering what he had told him, at the brink of madness and death, not everyone as ugly as him inside. "Sometimes a bad situation brings the worst out of someone," he said, his eyes turning away, Harvey's broken face clouding them as he threw his charred coin up in the air for a cruel game of fate, "but sometimes it brings out the best."

"But what if you're wrong, Master Bruce," Alfred asked, pain coloring his voice with fear, "What if this isn't one of _those_ times?"

A tired smile appeared over his lips, "I've made worse mistakes, Alfred."

That, he could always believe, always.


	10. Part III-IV

**Part III. IV – "Truth"**

* * *

Half an hour later, Alfred knocked the main guest room, the metal box he had retrieved from the cave in his left hand. He should trust his foster son's judgement, but that shadow of doubt was clouding every other hope. Alfred had been always the hopeful one; he had always believed one day Bruce Wayne would finally find his happy-ending; perhaps not here in Gotham, but somewhere out there. But he wasn't sure anymore. Rachel had been right. He didn't know when that day would come now. This was big, bigger than they had bargained for, and if it didn't work, the end results were going to be once again catastrophic. If there had remained a little shed of doubt before, after the talk they had just shared, after the words Alfred had heard, it had vanished. Bruce Wayne had placed his hopes in her.

The door opened, and revealed her figure as she looked at him, then her eyes lowered toward his hand. He could see how her back stiffened as soon as she realized what he was holding in his hand. Her hand reached out. "I believe this is yours." Alfred raised his arm too.

Her look turned into a glare, she didn't like his words. Her mouth soured, too, turning down, and she tore the box off his hand, "Thank you," she sneered, "You're so kind _keeping_ my stuff." Then she slapped the door on his face.

Alfred heaved a sigh. This had to work, but he had no idea how it would; of all people in the world, Bruce Wayne had chosen her. Or she had chosen Bruce Wayne, if one looked at it from in a certain way. Returning to the study, he let out another sigh. He started looking for the doctor she had mentioned. Christian Newman. Born in Northern Ireland in the late 60s, the doctor had been almost a progeny in the field of the newly developing reconstructive surgery and microsurgery, until one day he had joined in the ranks of the provisional Irish republican army, IRA. His trail after that was expectedly fuzzy. And ten years ago, after the Belfast Agreement the man had gone completely off-grid.

He wasn't surprised. Some of the IRA had chosen to leave the country after the agreement, finding it hard to adapt into a new place that hadn't the same struggles they had once had. Alfred could understand the feeling, if it hadn't been the late Thomas Wayne, the young man, the young doctor, who had saved his life in a god-forsaken jungle years ago, he would have never adapted into a normal life himself, either. The apple didn't fall far from the tree; Bruce Wayne was offering her a chance for a new life in the way his father had done to him. He could trust that.

Outside the door, he heard footsteps. His eyes sharpening, he stood up. He could trust that, he really could, but it didn't mean he should be also blind-folded. He opened the door, and in the staircase hall, he saw her looking around; her neck craned up, the studious, keen eyes taking every detail in. Alfred understood what she did at the first glance; she was surveying the area. Her eyes lingered over the windows and doors, and she closed to the floor length window, and peeked at the sky. Another storm was gathering, the heavy rain clouds darkening the sky. Then her eyes dropped, sweeping over the field below. An escape route, she was calculating an escape route.

Clearing his throat, he coughed a little. The sound had her attention as she snapped back at him. "You seem to be lost, Miss," he remarked gently, yet with a voice was like steel, no trace of softness underneath. He knew she was smart, she would understand what he had meant. And she had.

She looked at him in silence for a second, then her lips pulled out with that smile, half daring half taunting, an "who me" expression coloring her features in mockery. "Just looking around," she murmured, shrugging, her eyes moving around then they returned to him. "You know this is going to be my...new home," the sneer in her tone was silky, dripping over her words. Alfred frowned. He really wanted to trust to her, wanted to see what Master Wayne was seeing, but she wasn't making it easy. "So I thought I'd get my bearings," she completed, and looked around again, her eyes sweeping the whole interior... "This is a lovely place Bruce built for himself. If I didn't know, I wouldn't believe it was newly—" She halted, and turned aside, her eyes gleamed as she asked eagerly; "Did he really burn the house down?"

And at that time, in that moment, Alfred decided he needed to interfere, before this had turned into another mess. If this would work, she needed to understand why she was here, _for real. _"If this manor is going to be really your _new home_—" he began, stressing the last words, "I believe there are things you must know."

She gasped, a feign show of terror, "Why, more secrets?"

"It wasn't Master Wayne who burnt the manor down," Alfred stated instead stiffly, countering the mocking in her voice with the dryness of a fallen leaf, scratching. "It was a terrorist known as Ra's al Ghul. He was the man behind the fear attack last year. His men burnt the house down and left Master Wayne for dead. I saved him."

All mockery dropped off her face, as she stared at him, digesting his last words. It passed almost half of an full minute before she spoke again, "Why did he burn it?"

"Revenge for one thing," Alfred answered truthfully, "He was Master Wayne's old mentor."

She blinked twice. "Ok…I'll shoot," she muttered, shaking her head, "Why's a _terrorist_ Bruce Wayne's old mentor?"

Alfred smiled at her little. "There are things you don't know about Master Wayne, Miss."

Her face soured. "What I know about him was enough to ruin my life," she snapped back harshly, "I don't think I want to know any more."

He shook his head in ruined. "You've ruined your life all by yourself. Master Wayne didn't do anything except save it, not once but twice."

Looking at him, eyes challenging, she nodded slowly. "Yes, I've lied, I've blackmailed, I've tried to expose him just for money," her voice stressed each word as she stated the facts, "Yes, I'm a terrible person who uses other people for her own benefits—" Her eyes bore through his, her eyebrow arched, "but at least I don't go killing them when I feel it's justified."

For a second, Alfred stopped and thought of the answer, his eyes searching through hers. "And are you all right with it?" he then asked, "With him being a killer…as justified as it is?"

She let out a laugh, a taunting sound low from the throat. "Who am I to judge him?" she shot back, "I am a liar, a con artist, a common thief. And according to you, he's the savior of the mankind."

"But those people who died…?"

She shrugged. "Sometimes we do things we don't want to. We don't mean to. Believe it or not, nothing of this was my intentions. I didn't want this. In fact, in some way I even wanted to help. But nevertheless my intentions, _it_ happened. What's the use of stressing over it now? Everything turns out the way it's supposed to."

She turned to leave, but Alfred asked behind her back, "And responsibilities of your decisions? What about them?"

She turned back, her eyes narrowed in annoyance. "My _only_ responsibility is to survive," she snapped heatedly, closing in on him, her eyes burning, "And I'm not going to apologize for it—" She shook her head. "I'm not going to apologize for being what I am." She turned again to leave.

"You're in denial." Alfred remarked after her back.

She let out another derisive sound, but didn't return this time, only shot back, "I'm being pragmatic."

Alfred inhaled sharply, and prayed that the truth would be enough this time, he prey on it feverishly, because he saw now it was the only thing that would change things. "He didn't kill Harvey Dent," he told her the last, the only secret she didn't know. She stopped dead in her steps. "He didn't kill any of them."

She turned around. "Pardon me?"

"It wasn't him," Alfred repeated, "It was Harvey Dent."

For a moment, it was impossible to read her expression, then she heaved a sigh. "Well, that explains, I guess," she muttered, "I was wondering..."

His eyes snapped at hers. "Wondering what?" Alfred questioned.

She shrugged. "It was making little sense, him killing Harvey Dent. I mean, I tried to blow him off, and he came to my aid. Why would he kill Harvey Dent?" she asked, and Alfred knew it wasn't the first time. "There must be a reason."

He nodded. Despite many other uncertainties, there was one thing certain with her; she was smart. "He was threating to kill Commissioner's child."

She frowned, "Why?"

"To revenge his dead fiancée, Rachel Dawes—"

She cut him off, "The assistant D.A who died in another explosion on the same day?" she asked to confirm.

Alfred nodded. "The Joker had made Batman chose one of them. Master Wayne went to Miss Dawes's location but it turned out that the Joker had led him to Harvey Dent on purpose. Commissioner Gordon had gone after Miss Dawes. Batman could save Harvey Dent but the Commissioner could not," he explained as she absorbed the situation fast.

Then she discovered the thing he was trying to hide, still. "Why didn't he go to Harvey Dent?" she asked, "I thought he "believes" in Harvey Dent." A frown appeared over her eyebrows, "When come to think of it, why that maniac made him choose between Dent and his fiancée at the first place?"

Yes, she was smart; they would always remember that. He passed in his mind what he could tell her, then decided once again nothing else than truth could be enough, not now. "The Joker knew she was—" he halted for a second, "important to Batman."

"Oh," she said.

"Miss Dawes was Master Wayne's childhood friend," Alfred explained vaguely. "Her mother had used to work here."

"Hmm," she hummed, calculations going fast behind her eyes then a small smile broke over her lips, "_I see._" And Alfred knew she had. She had understood the situation even more perfectly, but she didn't make any further comment. Her smile, however, had said it all. "So Dent wanted to revenge Gordon by killing his child?" she asked the next, "What about other police officers?"

"He wanted to revenge all involved parties. The Joker had profited from his weak mental state. He found the police officer that had handed them to the Maroni's men," he explained further, "Went for the last Gordon's child. Master Wayne threw both of them over a roof to stop him. Master Wayne survived the fall, but he didn't."

She nodded, but then frowned again, as if she couldn't understand something. "But why did he take the blame on himself?" she asked, her eyebrows clenched with something very akin to confusion, "Why all this pretense?"

"Because he needs to," Alfred remarked sternly, "Gotham can't learn the truth about Harvey Dent."

She frowned further. "That's stupid."

"That's what Gotham needs him to be," Alfred shot back, his own words returning in his mind. Batman could endure what no one else could have, could be what no one else could. The words now sounded to him like a prophecy, self-fulfilled.

She, on the other hand, just rolled her eyes. "What Gotham needs is a wake-up call and to stop wishing for _heroes._"

Alfred shook his head. "Batman isn't a hero. He's more."

His words deepened her frown, as her eyes narrowed, looking at him directly in the eyes, and finally asked the question he had been waiting her to ask. Alfred knew she would. She _was_ a smart girl. "Why are you telling me this?"

In his answer there was no hesitance. "He believes...there is more to you, and a bad situation brought out the best of you. All of your options, you called _him,_" he told her his once foster son's words, "And for that, he's willing to give you another chance." He paused, taking a step closer, "But I've wanted you know him, _really_ him."

She looked at him, her face bearing a bewildered expression as she finally understood what he had been _telling _her in reality. The next, she started laughing, shaking her head. "So that's _why_ he wants to keep me around?" She opened her arms to the sides, gesturing around, her eyes narrowing, "What's this? A school project? The Joker was able to bring the worst out of the White Knight, so let's us try our chances with the Wicked Witch of the West?" she asked snappish, a fury entering in her voice, "Well, sorry to disappoint," she spat, "but I don't need you _saving_ me."

"Then why did you call Bruce Wayne?"

For that, she didn't have any answer. She only glared at him, eyes flashing in her rage, then without a word, she turned, and left.

* * *

Valerie had retreated to the guest room after the talk with Alfred, and she had been telling herself it hadn't changed anything ever since. It didn't matter, not at all. So what if he hadn't killed Harvey Dent, what was the difference? No, she shook her head. It didn't make any difference. A forked lighting flashed in the heart of the dark sky, lighting her reflection on the window. The storm had started an hour ago, and she hadn't moved from her spot over the floor length window since then, either. Somehow she felt it suit her current situation. _Truth changes everything_, passed through her mind, but defiantly she shook her head. No, it didn't change anything. She was still the woman she had been; only a name; and he was the Bruce Wayne, the eccentric billionaire.

She turned and walked to the small round table at the corner, and poured herself a drink from the Macallan 21. She had lied to him before. She had had one thing to bring from the bunker. As she took her first sip, the door opened, and he walked into. As soon as she caught a glance of the look over his face, she knew that _he_ knew. Alfred must have told him what he had done, thought it was impossible to tell if he liked it or not. Possibly not. Once again, he looked grave, that dark gloom weaving itself around like strict-knitted-net, his back rigid, his muscles holding tension. Watching her, he stood up in the middle of the room, legs apart, and stuffed in his hands into his pockets. _Definitely not._ The silence was suffocating, a living breathing thing between them. Because both knew something had changed now, irrecoverably. He wasn't a killer, he hadn't killed those men. Alfred was right. Bruce Wayne wasn't a hero, a hero couldn't do what he did, but she wasn't sure what he was, either.

She took another sip, bigger this time. "Why didn't you tell me?" Over the rim of the glass, she asked directly, not bothering with playing niceties. They had already passed that.

He gave her a look, but her only explanation was a few simple words, "I didn't think it was relevant."

She let out a choked, humorless laugh, and it mixed with the sounds of the thunder outside. She half turned to the windows, watching the storm, sucking up another sip. "Are you going out tonight?" she asked suddenly, making an allusion about the fact that she knew what he had been doing away in those hours the first time. But it wasn't what she had wanted to ask. What she had really wanted to ask was that 'Are you going to out in this storm, to get yourself killed for people who hate you so much so that they can continue to waste away their pitiful lives with an eased conscience, not stopping to ponder what's really going on in this fucking world even for the tiniest of seconds?' but she hadn't.

He nodded. "Yes. But further in the night. I have a fundraiser to attend to first."

To play the fool of the town… "Why are you doing this?"

She hadn't thought she really cared; that was his life, his choice, his problem but somehow the question popped out of her mouth, and she didn't really expect him to answer her inquiry but for unknown reasons he did, with a voice so slow, so distant, like it was coming from another planet, from another world, "I can't not."

Not talking further, she gulped down a lump her throat. In silence, she finished the drink, and walked back to the window. He left then, without a word. Resting her forehead on the window, she closed her eyes. A drill bore its way through her temples, a nameless ache squeezing her insides, trying to fit whole world inside. She wanted to run away, far away but she felt she didn't have the energy to even move her finger.

Opening her eyes, she studied her reflection in the window. Subject: Caucasian woman, twenty-nine years old; status: in one word, screwed.

This, whatever it was, had to stop.

* * *

Later in the night, when Bruce returned, he found her in _his_ room. He stopped just at the threshold, closing the door behind him slowly, his brows pulling into a scowl. He then turned to her. There was something different in her now, not like the woman he had seen in front of the window for the last time. She seemed to be fresh out of bath; semi-wet hair falling over her shoulders in loose curls, clad in a knee-length night robe, her feet bare. He didn't need to deal with it. "What are you doing here?" he didn't mean the question came out this harsh, either, but somehow it did. He really didn't need to deal with it, not now.

She looked at him, shrugging carelessly, "Couldn't sleep," she said simply, "Thought we'd keep each other in company."

His eyebrow arched. A leery smile split her lips in two, and slowly, she walked to him, her usual confident steps had a lazy sway, close to a strut. His eyes narrowed. She stopped in front of him, just at the edge of his personal space. Then she reached out, toward his belt. On reflex, he caught her hand. "What are you doing?" he asked, their hands hovering in the air just above his pants.

She tilted her head to side. "What does it look like?" she asked, taking a step further, and caught his fingers, too, getting their hands tangled to each other. "It's been a stressful week for both of us," she breathed out low, "and I really want—" she paused, her smile widening, turning sultry, "—_company_." She took another step.

Releasing her hand, Bruce took a step back. "Don't do this."

She came forward again, "Why not?" She looked at him, almost questioning, "You're a man, I'm a woman; we have needs. And there is this—tension between us—" Her hand reached out to his upper arm, "Why not let some...steam off?"

He shook his head. He _really_ didn't need to deal with this. He had been expecting she might try something like this, he had seen how she had been with young Jones at the footage. She was an attractive woman. She was aware of that fact, and she wasn't shy of...demonstrating it, either. But he had no desire to be used in such regards. Especially just after what had happened tonight. It couldn't be just a coincidence that she dropped by his room at the day he had brought her to his house, after Alfred had told her the truth about Harvey Dent. She hadn't taken it well, he had realized, it had changed something for her, enough to get her in his room, looking for sex. "You don't need to do this with me," he told her flatly, almost a warning.

The smile dropped off her face, as her eyebrows furrowed, as if sensing his thoughts. "Do what?" she still asked, though.

His eyes bore through hers. "_This,_" he answered, emphasis strong in the word, "It's got nothing to do with...our situation."

"Our situation...?" she repeated then she smiled again, pursing her lips, "It's my understanding that our situation is extremely...intense. This bond between us—" She wetted her lips, her eyes fixated on him, "We know each other like no one else does." She closed in on him again, and rose on her tiptoes, so close to an inch that her breath was warm over his skin, "It's...sexy."

His eyebrows clenched further, as he pulled back. He shook his head again. "It's nothing to do with it," he repeated, voice strained despite the words, "Go back to your room."

For a second, her face dropped again, annoyance striking the wanton look in her eyes, but the next, collecting herself she smiled again. She stared at him, her head tilted aside. He didn't like that cat-smug look, either. "So let me see if I got it right," she asked, strutting toward him, "You're trying to say that the fact that you're willing to give me another chance hasn't got anything with me being an _attractive_ woman," she stated mockingly, "and you'd have been still as open-hearted to the idea as you're now even if I was a sleazy seedy weaseled little man?"

"_Yes."_

In answer, she let out a loud laugh, as if his answer had amused her. Shaking her head, still smiling, she started walking—strutting to the door. "Keep telling yourself that, Wayne," she whispered to him before she walked out.

The following morning before he was out of the manor she was already above the stairs, leaning over the rails on her elbows, looking at him, and smiling _that_ smile. When he glowered at her, she waved coyly.


	11. Part IV-I

**PART IV**

**Part IV. I – The imminent danger**

* * *

The next weeks went in a hazy blur, days spent on planning a recon mission to Northern Ireland to find that doctor, nights passing to make sure no other mob boss sniffed off her trail, before he returned to the manor, half dreading to find her again in his room. He had never. Though, her presence in the other parts of his house became a constant one. At the moment he had seen her waving at him coyly over the railings, smiling that smile that looked anything but a smile, Bruce had gathered how the life was going to be with her now. He was sure she was doing it on purpose to prove her point. The challenge had become a sort of game to her, one that he _wasn't_ planning playing.

Aside his study, despite her injuries the gym was the most frequent place she must be found whenever she wasn't in the guest room. In the first week they spent together, Bruce had realized that she was one of those people that hated sitting idly around. She quickly had developed a routine. In the mornings, if it wasn't raining she was jogging lightly, before she did anything else. If it was raining, she went to the gym to get...her steam off. Then she was reading on the constructive surgery everything she could find, if not she was getting over his plans for the recon. Bruce had also noticed her hands went toward the scotch bottle less whenever her mind or her body was busy with something. The Macallan 21 bottle was finished even before the first week, and she had started with the second. He had asked Alfred to keep a close eye on the drinks in fears that she had an alcohol problem. At first, he had been afraid of worse things, but when she had been in the bunker, he had run blood tests; she was clean.

The only place in the manor that didn't bear her mark was dining room in the second floor that had the lift to the cave. He hadn't still let her see the cave. He knew sooner or later he was going to have to, they had made a bargain, but he felt there was still time. Frankly, he wasn't even sure how she would react to it. With the exception of that night, she had never even made any connotation that she knew what he was doing at nights. His alter ego was like the pink elephant that they pretended not to exist, even though they knew with a perfect clarity that it was indeed in the room. Breathing out a subtle sigh, he walked into the study before the dinner time. Eyes focused on the engineering magazine she was reading, Valerie didn't acknowledge his arrival as she lounged over the couch at the corner, sprawled out.

He sat in his seat behind the desk, and turned on his computer. He needed to go over the details for their trip to Belfast. They were going to smuggle into Rathlin Island at the northernmost point of the country, then were going to use the local ferry to pass to the mainland. The small island was almost deserted, barely inhabited; a perfect getaway place to sneak through the border undetected. The voyage though was still going to be problematic. After a brief talk with Valerie, Bruce had decided not to risk passing the borders with fake passports. He could find an alibi for himself easily, but with her, everything was a wild guess. That unfortunately left him little choice. His eyes stole a quick glance at her, wondering how she was going to take the trip to the island from America. Not good, understandably.

Over the couch, she straightened, her eyes focused on the magazine, as if she wasn't aware that her deep V-neck sweater was baring to his direction a handsome amount of cleavage with the act. "Bruce—" she called him, her head titled aside, her eyes narrowed at the page she was still gazing at, "Do you happen to have a 3D printer?"

He stared at her. She lifted her head, and smiled back at him with that smile, and somewhere along the way, it had also become their routine. "For what?" he asked tentatively, before he admitted he actually had one.

She put the magazine away. "We're trying to create a new me here. I think I'd like to see a real 3D model first." She leaned on her knees with her elbows, her cleavage revealing more flesh, a shadow lining between her breasts, "I mean, what if I won't be as gorgeous as I am now?" She flashed at him a smirk, sly and roughish, "imagine that!"

Bruce didn't react to her antics. He turned to the screen. "I thought you were going with creating a sibling."

Her head lolling aside, she gave him a look. "A beautiful woman can have ugly sisters, Bruce," she retorted, "We can't leave something like _that _to chance."

He barely held the urge to sigh. "Applied Sciences should have one," he said instead, "I will look around."

She stood up. "Ah," she inhaled softly, walking to the door, the low breath almost a moan, "What I'd do without you, sweetheart?"

Bruce glared at her retreating back. This—game was starting getting on his nerves.

Ten minutes later, Alfred came with his evening meal in his hand. "Miss Valerie told me you _saved_ her life again, Master Bruce," the older man commented dryly. Bruce made a nonchalant noise. "She will grow out of it, sir, eventually," Alfred assured him. He nodded. He was depending on it. "I suppose it's her way of dealing with pressure," Alfred commented further, and Bruce nodded again. He already knew that, but it didn't make any difference. It was an annoying habit, and a tiresome distraction.

"Did you purchase the items she required?" Bruce asked.

This time it was Alfred's turn to nod gravely. She had said she would need a change of wardrobe, and one look to the list she had made had been enough for Bruce to gather why she had called it a change. Most of the requested clothes included leather and shoes, down to specific brand names. He had stared at her when she handed him the list but she had shrugged. "I can't go back to my old buddies in these," she had said, pointing at the yoga pants and light sweater she had been wearing. "Whoever said 'beauty is only skin deep' was only lying."

Though, she didn't look quite bad in yoga pants, either, he had to admit. He shook his head. She was preparing herself, like how Batman prepared for a battle, only her armor wasn't of Kevlar, and her war paints didn't come in black, but a dark red.

A few minutes after Alfred had left she joined him at the table while he was having his dinner, and stole one of his French fries. "Did you retail the car?" she inquired, while munching the fry. The ferry from Rathlin Island was to arrive at a small town called Ballycastle in North Antrim, and from there, they would need to drive to Belfast.

The word echoed in his mind, while he kept his eyes trained on his plate. Belfast, a doctor that had been used to associated with IRA. The questions were clear in his consciousness, the indications palpable, though still he had kept his promise; he hadn't searched her. But with the word, he couldn't help himself but tossed at her a glance, his eyes searching for characteristic Irish features over her face; high cheekbones, tilted eyes, pale face, red hair. Her hair when she had been "Cameron" had been dark honey blonde, now it was the darkest brown that fell in loose curls but the roots of her dark hair suggested that she wasn't a natural redhead. With a closer look though, on could spot a few faint freckles around the base of her nose underneath a layer of foundation. There was no trace of Irish accent in her voice though, in fact there was no accent in her rich tones that could link to her any particular place, nor any special phrases suggesting where she came from. As she had said, she was just Valerie, and Valerie didn't like to be singled out.

Returning his attention to his dinner, he nodded slightly. "Yes, everything is settled," he said, "We leave in two days."

Before she reached out to another fry, her hands halted. Dropping her hands off, she looked at him, her eyes narrowed, "I thought we still have problems with the main trip. How we go to North Ireland?"

"With my private jet," he answered, but his answer only made her eyes narrowed further.

"I _thought_ we're not passing the borders regularly."

His attention turned back to his plate, "We're not," he shot back, cutting his steak, then threw the piece in his mouth. Before she could ask another question, he lifted his head, and beat her to it, "Are you really sure you can find that doctor?"

For a second, only for a second, the corner of her mouth twitched as she darted her eyes away before her postured returned to her usual suave mannerism but like her presence, Bruce had also become accustomed to her body language. Hesitation was bad news; just like how he had expected. Alfred had looked in the doctor, and the man seemed to be off-grid, sound and nice. "Well, when I saw him last, he was there," she said, reaching again to the fries.

"When was that time?" he questioned further.

Another hesitation, before she spoke fast, "A couple of years ago."

Slowly he set his fork down on the table. "A couple of years ago…" he repeated, his voice almost turning into a rasp, "You haven't got any idea where he's, have you?"

Her jaw squared off, she dropped the fry she was about to pick up and crossed her arms defensively. "If you happen to know a surgeon that could do such a surgery off the books, well, be my guest." Raising an eyebrow, she waited for him. He didn't speak. She smiled smugly. "Since you apparently don't—"

"I can find one," he interjected.

An expression of utter dread, horror, shock appeared on her face at the same. "Find one?" she seethed out, leaning over the table toward him. "We're talking about my face here!" she exclaimed. "I can't trust it to any second rate butcher who barely knows how to snitch a bullet wound back!"

"And you trust your guy?" he asked back, skepticism dripping off his words.

She hesitated again for a second, then straightening back she slowly answered, "I can trust him—being—him." She shook her head. "Don't worry, Bruce, I know how to deal with Christian."

"And if he isn't in Belfast?"

"Then I guess I'll ask around."

"You're wanted by GCPD, FBI, and Interpol with a red notice. You can't go ask around," he almost sneered.

Her face twisted whether at his tone or words, he wasn't sure. But the look she gave him as she leaned toward him might be enough to kill. "My life is at stake here, Bruce Wayne. Do you _really_ think that I go chat with people who keep track of Interpol red notices?" she snapped, annoyance and frustration sharpening the husky edges of her voice into steel. His eyes narrowed. Most of times she managed to keep that suave aloofness effortlessly, but her self-control was slipping, and as of the moment, he wasn't sure of the reason. His eyes narrowed further, as he regarded her even more closely.

Suddenly, as if she also gathered that she was slipping away, she straightened back. "They're just local gangs, small time stuff," she said, her voice now cool, a confident timbre in it, though he wasn't quite sure who she was trying to reassure.

"They might have heard of what happened in Gotham," he returned.

When a half sneer-half smirk flattened her lips into a mockery of smile, he knew all of her agitation was once again repressed. "I know this may come as a shock to you, darling," she whispered at him, leaning forward, "but not every one's life revolves around Gotham." She stood up from the table, giving him a mocking smirk. "You worry about how to get us to there, Mr. Wayne," she said, walking to the door, "I'll handle the rest."

* * *

She didn't look like she was handling it well. Two days later, she was looking at the wooden crate in the hangar of one of the front of companies he had, her eyes widened almost comically. "I thought you said we're going with your private jet," she hissed, her eyes still fixated at the crate.

"We do," he said simply, "We only don't share the same place."

She half turned to him, anger flashing in her eyes, and pointed at the crate, "You possibly can't expect me going to Rathlin in _this_!" she cried out. In answer, Bruce gave her only a look. She fumed more. "It's a eight hours trip!"

"I will sedate you," he explained, "You will sleep through the way."

She pressed her hand over her heart, laughing exaggeratedly, "_Now_ I feel much better, thanks!"

Heaving a subtle sigh, he closed to her. "Look, it won't be bad. You—"

"Says the man who will sit in his comfy seat, enjoying drinks," she interjected.

"I don't drink," he shot back stiffly.

"You're missing the point!" she cried out.

"Valerie, we can't use a fake passport," he said in return, softening his voice a tone down, "It's too risky."

She shook her head, almost in resignation, exhaling deeply in acceptance. "I know—" Her eyes darted at the crate again, "I really don't like it."

"I know."

She let out a sigh, opening her hands to sides in the air, "So what I'm supposed to be?"

"My bike," Bruce shot back.

She looked at him, her eyes narrowing into a slit, assessing him. Then she asked, voice demanding, as if on a challenge, "Ducati or MV Agusta?"

Bruce smirked. "F4 1000R," he answered, "It's faster than 749."

She pursed her lips down, "Clearly you never sat down on a 848."

He took out a syringe of his pocket, "Actually, I did." He approached her, opening his palm to reveal the medicine, and looked at her arm, "May I?" he asked, raising his eyes under his bowed toward hers.

She let out another sigh, pulling off her sweater off of her arm, and offering it to him. "Well, I was accused of being worse things."

* * *

It was dark, dark and cold, so much that she could see her breath turning into a smoke tendrils coming out of her mouth, twirling in the dark. She shut close her eyes tightly, as the panic rose inside, feeling the hard smooth coldness of the metal under her. She couldn't be here, not again. Oh, god, please not again. Her heart in her throat, her hands arose, trying to find the hatch; Clara hadn't closed the handle..._Clara!_ Her breath turned colder, as her blood froze, _Clara!_ She shook her head. Clara was dead, she had listened to it. Panic raised further, the small interior closing in on her even closer... _No!_ The crate wasn't small! It was big enough to house at least five bike in it, Bruce had prepared enough room for that end, but then why she was feeling she was in that narrow metal box again... She shook her head... _Not real, not real. _She was inside in a wooden crate, not in a cold metal grave... But what was that coldness she felt, and the screams! God, screams, high scratching screams for help... But help wasn't going to come...

Her eyes popping open, she jolted up from the nightmare, her hands clawing the cushions under her, her nails starching the soft fabric. God, she was going to kill that son of a bitch, first she was going to kick his ass, then kill him. _Then_ she was going to kick his dead ass. Groaning, she pulled herself on her hands and knees, standing on her fours, her head bowed down. It was just a dream, she told herself, but her mouth made no sound. She swept her sweaty palms under the cushions, proving herself once again it wasn't metal. God, her head hurt, the drug running in her blood stream, and she really hated small places.

As her panic rose again, she fumbled her pockets getting out the cell phone Bruce had given to her, and called the only number the phone had. "Get me out of here!" she barked at the phone, "Now." She threw the phone away, and lay down. It was still dark, but it wasn't cold anymore. In fact, it was getting hotter, almost suffocating. She pulled the zipper of her leather jacket down, and yanked the collar of her sweater down. She couldn't breathe; her chest tight like a stone, no air left in her lungs. With reflex, her hands went to her throat, as her eyes closed. For Christ sake, she hadn't had an attack for almost in four years. She forced herself to breathe, opening her mouth, and tried to settle herself down. Whatever happened, happened. Nothing would have changed the past now. She couldn't have done anything, she couldn't have stopped it. She could have only survived, and she had. She wasn't going to apologize for it.

Suddenly, the tightness lifted off her chest as the air filled in her lungs. She inhaled deeply, savoring the moment, her blood running high, both with drug and being almost suffocated.

The next moment, she heard rushing footsteps over the hum of the machinery in the jet then the lid of the crate was pulled off. Above her, where she sprawled out, Bruce Wayne's worried face appeared, looking at her, his eyes glinting with a craze, his hand holding an iron lever. A smile pulled out her lips. He should have lost his mind after her call, dashing to her rescue; always the heroic one. "Are you okay?" he asked, narrowed eyes searching her.

Her smirk grew wider. "Just peachy," she said with a smarmy voice, her breathing now turned to normal, "Wanted to see how quick you'd come."

He gave her a hard look, enough to suggest that he might stuff her again in and send her back to Gotham. Raising her hands in the air for a peace offering, she wiped the smirk off her face, and started standing up. "I don't like small places," she explained, climbing down out of the wooden box. She let out a sigh, looking at it, "You should've doped me more," she muttered.

His look turned even sterner. "I gave you a dose that should put you in sleep at least for nine hours," he shot back.

And it had only passed five hours. In answer, she only shrugged, not giving away any other explanation, but she could still see him drawing his own conclusions. God, even without setting a foot back to _home_, this had turned into a mess. What the hell she had been thinking of calling him like a mad banshee anyway? She shook her head slightly, and looked around. "Is there something to eat around here?" she asked, mostly to break the silence, "I'm famished."

He pointed the crate. "I'd prepared a small pack for you," she looked down, and saw the black backpack at one of the corners inside, "There is water and some biscuits, and sandwich."

Shaking her head, she reached out below, and took the bag. "You have to think of everything, haven't you, Bruce?"

His face squared off, "Do you complain?"

She grinned, yanking off the sandwich's package, and taking a bit off, "Not at all."

The rest of the trip went...eventless. Bruce hanged around for a few moments then returned to his seat, securing her again inside the crate, neither of them questioning her "moment" furthermore. For a moment or two, she opted for asking him to stay, but she forsook the idea as soon as it entered into her mind. If she had another crisis, she preferred to face with it alone. It was more dangerous, but at least this way, she wouldn't need to answer some noisy questions later, and she really preferred to be free of any prying eyes, especially of Bruce Wayne's prying eyes if she was to get another breakdown.

One hour later, the jet started landing down. She lay down, closing her eyes, her hands gripping the soft cushions under her tightly. She wished she had asked for a drink. She closed her eyes and forced herself to stay steady while the crate cleared through the customs without any problem. Another half of hour later, she was free again. She climbed down out of the crate, breathing heavily the fresh air, blinking at the midnight. Bruce had arranged their arrival around the midnight, mostly to use the cover of the darkness, and partly to lessen the effect of the time difference. Back in Gotham, it was only seven in the evening, though, her body was already feeling spent with the stress of the journey. Supporting her weight along the wooden surface, she looked at the empty hangar. She had heard this place before. The private civilian airport had been used for smuggling in the times of Troubles, and now was simply using for regular smuggling. They left the hangar with an old pick up, driving to the ferry that they would use to cross to the mainland, then to Belfast.

A shiver passed through over her skin; back to home. She opened the water's bottle cap, and took a big sip. She told herself there was no reason to feel nervous, but the words didn't give her any comfort. Bruce Wayne giving her side-glances as he drove whenever he thought she wasn't looking wasn't helping the matter, either. But at least, he stayed in silence, didn't make any comment. And she appreciated, she really did. Catching the ferry, they made to North Antrim in silence, and picked up the white Golf he had retailed to drive to the address she had given him, still in silence.

Then an hour later, he finally broke it, approaching to the old "Double Is" that had built a few decades ago. "Valerie," he told her with a voice authoritative but also—gentle, as if he was trying to build a civility between them, "If there is a ...danger here lurking around," he continued, "I need to know it now."

She suppressed a long tired sigh. During the last weeks, he had tried a couple of times questioning her about Belfast, but every time she had managed to maneuver the topic with evasive answers. She wasn't still sure what to make of it. If he had searched through the newly formed PSNI's servers, she was sure he was going to find a rather endearing photo of her in an orange jumpsuit; a certain Sarah Allen serving a-year-of-sentence for breaking and entering seven years ago at age twenty-two. Though, she wasn't certain what else he could find about it. 2001 was the same year that Royal Ulster Constabulary had turned into Police Service of Northern Ireland, and she knew for a fact that most of its databases were raided by the former IRA operatives, whether it to be for retaliations or for a fresh start. Even she had had Jeremy's help severing her ties completely with "Sarah" when she had created Cameron Reese, and both Felicia and Cecile were merely nicknames. It was possible that he _had_ indeed searched her past despite his promise but couldn't have found anything. She would never know for sure, because she wasn't going to ask.

When she didn't answer, this time he asked directly, "Have you ever operated here?"

She shook her head, letting out a breath, but finally accepted; she didn't see any purpose denying the truth now. "It was a long ago time."

He shot at her a quick look. "Four years weren't that long." Her head snapped at him. So he had searched. She swallowed down a sniff. What she had really expected? That he would honor his words, and give her really another chance? This was real life, not a fairy tale. "I didn't look," but he said as if he had heard her thoughts, "Cameron Reese," he continued, "I could track her trail only to four years back," he explained, "but before then there was nothing to suggest that she actually existed as more than a _name._" His eyes darted at her again, before he declared, "You came to America four years ago."

In silence, she looked at him back, but neither accepted or denied his statement. "Valerie—" but Bruce Wayne wasn't one to leave something off the hook easily, she was starting to understand, _even_ while keeping his promises, "Is there an immediate danger?"

Giving up, she shook her head. "No."

He stopped at the address she had given to her, his eyes staring at the old decaying the apartment complex building that had surveyed both a world war and a civil war, "But of an... imminent one?" the cunning son of bitch pressed further.

This time she accepted, "Yes."

* * *

On the walls covered with moss and dirt, The Easter Lily glinted bright in green, orange, and white, a symbol of endurance for to those who worn it, and clear warning to those who didn't. His eyes turned from the badge plastered on the wall toward the woman who climbed the steps ahead of her. The building was old, the metal railings moaning with metal fatigue under their feet, plaster peeling off with each step, but her steps had an easy that clearly indicated that it wasn't her first time climbing the tricky staircase. Their last conversation in the car echoed in his mind, but he chased the thoughts away, and focused on. Speculating would only turn things to worse.

"Are you sure she's going to talk?" Bruce asked, his eyes skipping to her. Somehow he was finding it hard to believe that she could help them.

Without bothering to look at him, she simply shrugged, "It never hurts to ask."

"She's _his_ mother," he stressed out.

"Again," she retorted, "never hurt to ask."

It didn't work. And Bruce barely held himself barking out a "told you so". In front of the building complex, she shrugged again. "Well, it was a long shot," she accepted, heaving a sigh. Bruce shot at her a look. She shook her head. "Come, let's go to the motel." Her eyes swept around, "This place is giving me creeps without the Granny."

He looked at her, but this time didn't bother with any question. It wasn't like that she was going to answer truthfully any of his questions.

Half an hour later, they were climbing to their floor in the motel in silence; the motel she had found was lacking elevators, among other things. Crossing the room, he threw his backpack on a twin bed, realizing this little excursion to the other side of Atlantic might take more time than he had initially planned. And Batman had already missed one night. He turned aside and looked at gritty Belfast skyline in the approaching dawn. This was another city where crime and corruption of mankind had been rotting for a long time but his priorities always lay with Gotham, where his life had begun and would end one day, nowhere else but Gotham, he was determinate on that.

The room had all the luxuries of ramshackle rattraps—stale air, broken furniture, filthy walls with peeling painting and moss, but he hadn't seen any graffiti of the Eastern Lily. Walking into the room, Valerie settled on the bed deep in thoughts still in silence, her mouth turned down in a scowl. Then in a heartbeat, she was on her feet. "All right…" she inhaled, as if coming to a decision, a decision he wasn't sure if he was going to _like_. "I need to see someone else."

His eyes immediately narrowed, "Who?"

She shrugged, "Another old friend," she replied, her tone getting him even more suspicious; he had learned about her body language rather well. "He might know in what hole Christian is, too."

"Who?" he repeated.

Letting out another breath, she shook her head, as if she understood she couldn't win that game, and she _wouldn't._ "A smuggler," she stopped and clarified as soon as his expression turned sterner; he was getting sick of this; "of _alcohol_, no weapon etc.," she went on, "When you want to find someone who _doesn't_ want to be found, you go to Sean. He has close ties with Sinn Fein."

His eyebrows clenched further, and he couldn't help anymore. After all, he had given her word not to search her, but he didn't make any promises not to—question her. "And what's _your_ ties with them?" he asked, walking to her.

Getting in defense, her arms crossed over her the fitted leather jacket she was wearing like a second skin, almost in protectiveness, but still tried to play the dumb. "What do you mean?"

He shook his head. "Both your doctor and contact are ex-IRA," he stated bluntly, his voice almost a raspy hiss, "I think it's _quite_ obvious what I mean."

At his words, she dropped her arms off, easing out a breath close to a huff. "I'm _not_ ex-IRA," she told him, "they're just _old_—" she punctuated the last word with a look, too. He looked at her back. She shook her head, a frustrating entering into her voice again, "Back in those days, you were either a Unionist or a Loyalist," she said, "There was no other option."

His eyes didn't leave hers. "I'm coming with you."

"No, not this time," she replied flatly, turning away from him.

"I wasn't asking your permission. I speak, and you follow my word," he set out the rules with a hard stare to remind her that he was in charge. There would be no comprises in that regard.

She was a smart girl, Bruce already knew. She knew when to retreat. Nodding curtly, she backpedalled, changing the direction of approach. "Look, he's not an old woman that turned out already death. I bet Sean doesn't know where Gotham is, but he still might recognize Bruce Wayne's famous features," she said, shaking her shoulders apologetically. "Be reasonable. I can't take you with me."

"I don't like it," Bruce growled out.

Shrugging again, she walked to mirror to apply more lipstick to her already burgundy lips. "Well, honestly? I'm not a fan of it either." She checked her appearance, unzipped her jacket to reveal a daring cleavage, and tossed her hair. She then turned around, put a hand on her hip, and posed for him. "How do I look?"

Unpredictable, dangerous…wild, Bruce thought. "Nice," he said out loud.

She made a face, displeasure pulling the corner of her lips down. "Not quite what I was going for."

He smiled at her falsely and fished out a tracking device from his pocket. He tossed it to her. She caught it in midair and arched an eyebrow. "Is this really necessary?"

"You need to ask?"

She gave him a filthy look in response. Then not averting her eyes from him, she dropped the device between her breasts. "Happy?"

No, he wasn't. His battle instincts were telling him the imminent dangers were lurking around at the every corner, but he wasn't sure which corner he needed to cover at first. He wasn't on his usual turfs, this wasn't his battleground. He was on the unfamiliar territory, and Batman wouldn't show around. Even Bruce Wayne couldn't be sighted around.

They were alone. The truth soured his mood even more, as he gave her a wireless ear piece. He had already blue-jacked in the phone he had given to her, so the wireless connection was the only thing he needed to listen to her conversation with her mysterious contact.

Without a word, she pushed the ear piece into her ear then strode to the door. "Wait for me," she said, opening the door, but before she walked out, her eyes skipped to the twin bed momentarily. A tight smile appeared over her lips, "I take the left side."

* * *

_ A few explanation:_

_\- Bruce was driving a MV Agusta F4 in the Dark Knight. I've always thought it Ducati, but I learned a few months ago it was actually MV Agusta._

_\- PSNI; Police Service of Northern Ireland. According to Wikipedia, it was founded in 2001, taking the place of RUC; Royal Ulster Constabulary. _

_\- The Easter Lily; it's a badge that mostly are worn by supporters of Republicans, ie the IRA and Sinn Fein. Sinn Fein is one of the major parties in the Northern Ireland. _

_The last thing I'm not Irish, so some stuff I've searched online while building Valerie's backstory might be wrong. If you catch anything, let me know. I'll think about it._


	12. Part IV-II

**Part IV. II – "A bridge crossed"**

* * *

Before she knocked the door of Sean's bunker, her hand hesitated, her eyes sweeping around the streets that she never thought she would see again. All things considered, a talk with Sean was the last thing she wanted to do at the moment, especially when she had a rather annoying billionaire in her ear carefully listening every word she spoke. The man was a pain in the ass, a very smart, not to mention good-looking pain in the ass, but he was still one. If she wasn't the focus of his close scrutiny, she would have been impressed at his attention to the details, but unfortunately she was. She had always liked to be in the center of the attention, but never like this, never intruding, trying to slip through her borders, picking up every little piece of bread in the meantime. She wondered how long he was going to keep his promise before yielding into his curious nature. She _almost_ wished him to do, just to see how he might react.

She sniffed, shaking her head, knocking the door. They should have just slept together. It would really make things—not easier, but simpler. Men were always simple in the bed; their needs were clear, uncomplicated. Well, mostly, possibly. If the rumors were correct, Batman _had_ a high stamina. She shook her head, dismissing the sudden thought, and braced herself to face her opponent. She couldn't deal with Sean with a naked image of Bruce Wayne in her mind. She knocked again, more firmly this time, but the door still stayed unopened. She took a step further, and brought her ear close to the surface, listening to inside. Perhaps he was still asleep, although it wasn't the man she had down, he always woke up before the dawn, but time...times did funny stuff to people. And he was getting old, approaching to fifty. Then she heard soft footsteps. She retreated quickly, forcing herself into the eased demeanor that she had perfected over the years, a suave small placed on her lips. When the door opened, she greeted the man, "Hello, Sean."

Even though he was surprised to see her at his doorsteps, close to the dawn, the former guerilla didn't show it off. Leaning against the frame of his door in his faded t-shirt and jeans, he didn't look like he'd gotten out of the bed, either. He gave her an once-over, his eyes carefully assessing her...assets, but she knew more than her body he was assessing the situation. She huffed with a mocking exasperation, eying the white in his hair. "You've become rude in your old age, love," she commented with a pout, adding to her voice a silky taunting, but still keeping it free-accent. It had been long since she had forced herself to drop her accent, and she was not going to adopt it now.

Smiling at her, Sean pulled back from the door and opened up the way for her. "Forgive the manners of the _old man_," he stressed the last word as she walked into the bunker, "Just never thought you'd show your face around here again."

She laughed out. "Well, you know what they say," she said over her smile, shrugging, "You always come back to home."

"They also say the criminal always returns to the scene of the crime," he shot back.

She took a breath, as if she was affronted. "Sean, you wound me," she said exaggeratedly, a mocking husk roughing her voice. The former guerilla looked at her. She started laughing again. "_Come on_—" she drawled, hitting his upper arm lightly, "Don't tell me you didn't miss me."

"Oh, don't worry," he said in return slyly, "you were _always_ in my dreams."

She cocked up her eyebrow, her lips curved into her smile, "Really?" He gave her a look. She shrugged, still laughing. "Well, you were in my dreams, too, darling."

His eyebrow arched, too, "Really?"

Her face suddenly sobered as she dropped the fakeness in her voice. "We used to be good friends, Sean," she said, "Is it impossible to miss that?"

As soon as the words left her mouth, his face sobered too. "All right, _Felicia_, that's enough," he said, voice turning colder then asked bluntly, "What do you want?" He halted for a second before continuing, "Assuming you didn't already steal it from me?"

She exclaimed, "I would _never._"

"Oh, you _would_ always," Sean sneered back then repeated. "What do you want?"

She decided to cut the bullshit then. "I'm looking for Christian—" she answered truthfully then asked directly, "Do you know where he is?"

His eyes narrowed. "Why?"

She shrugged. "I'm in a need of his—expertise."

In silence, Sean only looked at her.

She let out a sigh, and strutted to him with a leisure pace, taking her time to create the scene. "Ok…here's the thing," she started again, propping herself over the counter he was standing in front of, and told him the truth, in her own way; "I'm working on behalf of someone who likes his privacy very much, and who is very rich, very gullible, and also in a dire need of a good doctor." She dropped her voice a tone down as she closed in on him further. "Give us something, _anything_," she whispered earnestly, "and he will make it very much worth your while."

With a scoff, Sean took a step back. "You're losing your touch, Fi," Sean walked back to his couch, shaking his head at her, almost in disappointment. "You used to be a much better liar."

Dropping the act, she neared in on him again. "I'm not lying," she rasped heatedly.

"Like you said we used to be good friends?" he asked, barking out a laugh, as he sat on the couch.

"We were!" she protested.

"The last time you told me we were good friends you stabbed me at my back!" he bit off, words not loud but full with a cutting edge.

"You were trying to do the same!" she shouted back, as Bruce's commanding voice echoed in her ear, _"Valerie."_ The sole utter of the name made her collect her wits again, the hazy blur of fury lifting. Sarah Allen was dead, Felicia was merely a nickname. Now she was just Valerie, and Valerie was here for a purpose.

She let out a rough breath, before she tried again. "Tell me where Christian is," she said, "and I will pay you a great deal of money." Again, Sean only looked at her, not moving an inch. Her face closing, she nodded, curtly. "Okay. Try this," she leaned back over the counter behind her, crossing her arms over her, "I'm wondering how much Ronnie might be interested in knowing how you kept him in the dark before."

Sean laughed loudly. "Oh, that was good. Ronnie swore, and I quote," his voice turned to a mocking imitation of the cast-out heir of the Looney family, "_the next time I see her, I put a bullet in that lying face of hers._" Sean gave her a crooked smirk and continued with his own voice, "Don't recommend running back to your old lover, _love_."

She shook her head, disgust and anger distorting her face, before she spun on her heels and walked back to the door. She was an idiot, an idiot to think that he could help her, just because she was in a hard place. She yanked the door open, but before she put a foot outside, his voice stopped her. "But you must be truly desperate if you return here," he slowly said.

She didn't turn back, but asked, "What if I am?"

"Then quit lies, buttering up, and threats, and sit down," he said, "Then we might talk about—business." He paused for a second. "_Real business_."

Smiling, she closed the door, and turned to him, a smarmy smile all over her face. "I always knew you have a soft spot for me," she muttered under her smile.

"Shut up." She smiled wider, sitting in an armchair, as Sean walked to his desk and took a yellow dossier from his drawer. "If you want to learn where the doctor is, you're gonna help me with this," he announced, throwing the dossier at her.

First she gave him a look as he stood towering above her, then bowing her head, she opened the dossier. "What's this?" she asked, looking through the contents. There were a few snapshots of a man in his thirties as he walked in the streets, unaware of his photos were taken. There was a haunting expression over his face, his face the color of ash, the dark shadows underling his eyes, giving him even more bleak air. There were other snapshots, too; a house, a car, another bunker. "Or rather who's this?" she amended her question, lifting her head from the surveillance file.

Giving her a stiff look, Sean supplied her with information, "This is Rory Boyle," he said, "He used to be together with us in the old days." She heaved a subsided sigh, finally understanding what was happening, "Some...people in the Assembly believes he's a part of a cell that refused to disarm after 2005."

"He turned to one of the rogues?" she asked to confirm. The New IRA, as they called themselves, the dissidents that would never make their peace with any authority, no matter what everyone else wanted. She could understand the feeling, but the reasons were different.

In answer, Sean nodded. "Some people can't accept time...happens," he intoned, shrugging off, almost in resignation.

Her eyes drew away, "And things change," she muttered slowly then turned back to him, the momentary nostalgia gone. "I thought the Army deals with the rogues."

"Well, given that there is no Provisional Army _officially_ anymore," Sean shrugged. "He used to be...a friend," the smuggler said with hesitance. She arched her eyebrow. Sean shook his head. "They've been mostly dealing with drug dealers and pimps at the corners, but—" he halted for a second then shook his head again, "There are talks about an _event_ in the circles. The party doesn't like it. They just gave their full support to PSNI last year. An attack would turn things into a further mess."

Then she understood. "They want to bring him in before it's too late," she stated.

He nodded, giving her a half smirk. "We're the peacekeepers now."

"Touching," she shot back, sarcasm thinning her voice, as she laughed softly, "So it's got nothing with the bounty that they must've placed on his head."

He shrugged with an unabashed ease that she saw herself mirroring lots of times, "I'm multitasking."

"You've always," she agreed, then looked at him narrowing her eyes, leaning over the couch, "But what I don't understand is what you need from me."

He looked at her back pointedly. "I need someone to bring him in... peacefully."

Straightening back, she gave him another smarmy smile, "Let me guess, you've crossed him before, and when he sees you the next, he puts a bullet in that lying face of _yours_?" she retorted back his words, muttering again under her smile.

"I'm not going to apologize for being who I am, Fi."

"We never do," she nodded, voice affirmative then stated out with finality, "So you want _me_ to bring him in."

Sean though only shook his head in frustration. "Don't be stupid," he snapped, "He doesn't even know you."

"Then what do you want from me?" she asked with the same frustration.

"I want _you_ to bring Jason in."

The words were spoken clear, without any ulterior or hiding meaning but she wasn't still sure if she had heard him correct. They had reached to her ears, but the meanings suddenly were lost to her. Because he could not ask what she had just heard. He simply could not.

Her eyes stuck on him, she whispered, "What?"

"I want Jason," he repeated bluntly, "Bring him in. Rory used to adore him. Jason could talk some sense to him."

In silent astonishment, she shook her head. "_Sarah_—" Sean said her name deliberately.

She shook her head, stopping him. "No way," she snapped in a harsh whisper, "No way I talk to _that_ man again."

Taken aback, Sean looked at her, "Still?"

Her face closing off, she stood up. "Still." Without another word, she turned on her heels, and walked to the door.

"I guess you're not that much desperate, huh?" he asked from her behind.

Her hand on the handle, she let out a scoff, but admitted before she walked out, "No, not that much."

She had sworn she was never going to be that much desperate again. Never again.

* * *

An hour later, Bruce was watching her as she paced the motel room, her heels clicking on the bare floor with a curt a staccato rhythm. All in three weeks, Bruce had never seen her like this; like a wounded lioness that was stuck in a cage, even not when she had been in the bunker truly wounded, truly stuck. He shook his head. Much like everything with her, this one was turning to more than they had bargained for. It was supposed to be a recon mission. He knew it wouldn't be easy, he knew they wouldn't find the doctor easily, but bringing a rogue in? He shook his head with frustration as Valerie muttered under her breath the same. She was passed beyond the agitation now. The problem was that he was barely, just barely any different from her.

During the time she had been outside, it had been him who was wearing out the floor under his feet, his temper rising with every second they had spent away from Gotham, while his mind was crowded with unknown dangers and with the stress of being away from his city. It was the first he had been away from Gotham since Rachel's death, and each moment he spent here he felt something bad was about to happen, and just because he wasn't there to stop it, more people would end up death because he failed again.

He _knew_ he wasn't being fair to himself, but knowing it didn't make any difference, the feeling was still there, a constant reminder how he always let people who believed in him down.

"That scheming, slithering, heap of old bones and wrinkled skin!" Valerie hissed through teeth cattily, "The nerve of him, the nerve of him—"

"Valerie—" Bruce called her, his voice edging her name with a clear warning.

But she didn't seem to be in the mood to play nice. She stopped, looking at him then barked out, "What?"

He looked at her directly, too. "What was that about?"

Turning away, she ignored his question and resumed her wild pacing. "We just need to find out something," she said, shaking her head, pacing to the left side of the room, "Leverage, something that he _is_ desperate of," she hissed as turning again toward the right side, "It was stupid of me going there with empty hands."

"What are you talking about?"

Her routine turned to his direction, her feet carrying her toward him, her eyes blazing, "We need to talk to him in the only language he understands—" She suddenly halted, staring at him as if she had seen him the first time. "Fuck it!" she exclaimed, "Why I didn't think of that before," she murmured as she rushed to his side and caught his wrist. She started dragging him toward the door.

Stopping, he pulled her to his side, "_What_ are you doing?"

"You need to make him talk!" she shouted at his face, clawing at his forearm again, "Kick his ass, throw him over a roof, I don't know. I don't care. Just make him talk!"

He shook his head at her. "You've lost your mind."

"You're the goddamn Batman!"

An utter silence followed her declaration as they stared at each other, their chests inches apart. Her frenzy waned through the silence, and he could even see the way her jaw moved as she swallowed the rest of her words, her eyes still struck on him. There she had said it out loud. _You're the goddamn Batman._ He felt a door closed and locked behind them, a bridge crossed, and there were no safe returns now. She knew his secrets, she knew him like no one else did. She had tagged herself along with his life, and Bruce understood with a perfect clarity now that the journey was going to be a hell of a rough ride.

"Who is he?" he asked slowly, taking a step further to her, crossing another border, into her personal space, like she had been doing to him since the day they had met.

"No one of importance," she returned his move, almost challengingly, even though she took a step backward.

"Do you know where to find him?" he pressed in, stalking to her with a predatory measure. She shook her head no, taking another step back. "Don't lie to me," he rasped out, his voice dropping to the distinctive rasp on instinct, a not-so-subtle warning edging it to sharp steel.

The next step had her back pressed at the wall. Standing inches apart, he looked at her trapped figure, as she stared at him, perhaps truly understanding the first time with whom she had been dealing with. But she wasn't one to back down without a fight first, he had already gathered it, too. Her chin titled up on challenge, she asked, "What if I don't?"

He didn't move an inch. "Don't," he ordered, voice definitive. In silence, she swallowed, but still maintained the eye contact. "Answer me," he ordered again, softening his voice only an fraction, "Who is this Jason?"

She let out a rough breath, before she whispered out, "He's my father."

He stared at her, the last word echoing in his ears. Taking advantage of the moment, she turned aside, and rushed to the bathroom.


	13. Part IV-III

**Part IV. III – The ghosts of the past**

* * *

Bruce looked at the door that she just got lost behind, her last words still ringing in his ear. _He's my father... _In his mind, another memory resurfaced... _wouldn't know, grew up in a covenant. _He knew he shouldn't be surprised; lying was as natural to her as breathing was to others but all of things he had been expecting this Jason to be, father wasn't even in the list. He wondered this was also the reason she had been upset with the prospect of returning to her home town, even though he had an inkling that her father wasn't in the city. God, this had really turned more than he had bargained for. Shaking his head, he took a step forward to the bathroom, intending to bring her out for further questioning, but before he reached his destination the squall of his phone stopped him. He took it out and saw that Alfred was calling.

"Sir," the older man greeted him as soon as he opened up the line, "You've missed our rendezvous call," Alfred said, even though the words were accusing there was no resentment in his voice, only a slight worry. "Is everything okay?" he asked, "Do you want me to arrange the hangar for your return?"

Bruce let out a sigh. No, everything was _not_ okay. "I don't think we're returning tonight as arranged, Alfred," he remarked, his eyes still fixed at the door, then accepted, "This recon is getting out of control."

Alfred stayed silent for a second, weighing his words, surely holding another "but I bloody told you" at bay. "What happened, Master Bruce?" he asked the next.

"We couldn't find her doctor, but found a contact that might know where the hell the doctor is," he answered.

"That's good," Alfred said, but he could still hear the question mark in the older man's tone.

"Yeah, the only problem is the man in return wants her to bring her father in to collect one of their old friends who might be very well planning a terrorist attack," he summarized the situation bluntly, "And she's lost her wits when she heard about her father. She's in the bathroom now, locked herself in."

It took almost a full minute before Alfred digested the shit storm he had just rained on him, then he carefully commented, "I thought she said she didn't have any family."

"Apparently she lied," Bruce sneered bitterly. "What a shock."

"What are you going to do, Master Bruce," Alfred asked, ignoring his last remark on good instinct.

His eyes turned to the bathroom's door again. "For starters," he answered, "I'll bring her out of the bathroom."

* * *

Valerie sat at the edge of the small bath tub in the bathroom. She had to escape because a good fighter always knew when it was time to fight or retreat, and her flight instincts had been always the best. The look Bruce had given her after her declaration; the astonishment and curiosity underneath the pool of frustration... nope, they weren't promising good things. He had managed to drill the truth out of her but he wasn't content with the answers he had gotten, not yet. He wasn't going to let the subject drop. He was far too stubborn for that. She cursed, feeling like breaking something. But it would bring his attention back to her, so instead she settled with banging a fist on the surface of bath tub.

If she had to be completely truthful with herself, she had to admit she had _completely_ lost the control of the situation. Her end was still clear, she needed to get herself out of this mess, but her means had become...tangled. Christian was a paranoiac shit of piece, Sean was a certified son of a bitch, Jason was a can of worms that she didn't want to open, not now, not ever, and Bruce...well, Bruce was difficult to categorize.

She repressed the urge to shiver remembering the state she had left him in the room. He was nothing, nothing like the man she had seen before; the gloom of danger that she had seen only in glimpses before emitting off his every pore. People nicknamed Batman the vengeance of the night, and now she knew the reason. It was disorienting; one moment he acted like a gentleman in the old movies, the next a taciturn man; easy to smirk dark but hard to smile light, and then a creature of night. It was confusing, and she hardly became confused by people. She knew what they wanted. He was an enigma and there had been that thrill of pushing his boundaries, measuring his barriers, testing his edges, but now she felt like they had crossed a line. _You're the goddamn Batman._

She still had no idea what had made her utter those words aloud, but she had said it, and she couldn't take it back anymore. They had been protected behind an invisible ward of impersonal subjects and indifferent pronouns, but now things had changed, once again, she could feel it deep in her bones.

_You're the goddamn Batman. _

She wondered what was she was supposed to do now, try her chances again for five-minute frolics? She wished they could have, but somehow she still knew he would just give her _that_ look again for another attempt. She shook her head, as if to dismiss the memory. She decided if there was a thing called Fate, it must hate her. One fatal mistake and her life were doomed, and once again she was striving against the stream. She had been dreaming of tropical beaches and colorful cocktails as her happy ending, not crawling back to her father. She had spent her last years taking every bothersome precaution not to see his ugly face again, too many things had happened, too many issues still cut a little too raw, so many old wounds and old bitter feelings she was tired of carrying but didn't exactly know how to get rid of, either. But she tried, God knew she did; screaming, kicking, fighting… every day, every breath was a struggle, but she could see now that it wasn't enough, nothing would be enough. You always come back to your crime.

_November, 2001_

_She walked in the grey corridors of the Hydebank Wood prison, glancing at the insignia of the newly formed PSNI all over the walls. It wasn't bad, seeing it finally happening, but the feeling didn't give her any comfort, understandably. "Is this really necessary?" she muttered, her eyes skipping to the handcuffs around her wrists._

_"__Shut up and keep walking," the female guard in plain blues snapped, walking beside her, her fingers tight around her upper arm._

_She let out a sigh, but followed the order. Two days of prison life and she had already learned when one should keep talking, and when one should keep her mouth shut. She wanted to ask who had _asked_ her presence, but the sullen woman hadn't given away any information the first time she had asked, and she didn't see any reason it should be different now. She passed in mind the possible candidates; the public defender will come the next week before her trial, and she had made crystal clear to Jeremy the last time that she didn't want to see anyone _else. _The hacker had made a case for Jason, of course, but she hadn't heard of any of it. What she had now to talk with her father? He had talked enough. "Call the fucking police!" _

_The guard opened the door of the interrogation room and made her sit at the left side of the metal table in the room. Only a few times inside, yet she already hated this room. Leaving her hands still bound, the woman walked out. A few moments later, the man she least wanted to see walked in. Her face turned thunderous. "What the hell are you doing here?" she spat, leaning over the table, as he walked toward her, his hand holding a dossier._

_He threw it down on the table, with annoyance of all things. "We don't have time for this," he warned before saying anything else._

_Of course not. He wasn't one to ask how she was actually doing. If she was okay or not. She laughed out, a sound bitter and dark. "I don't know you, but I do have nothing but time now." He sat down at the opposite side, giving her a look in silence. "Visitation is restricted," she remarked evenly, looking at him carefully, "How did you manage to get in without my permission?"_

_"__Ryan," he explained plainly, "the guard brought you in. She owed me one."_

_Sniffing, she nodded, but didn't speak. He didn't, either. After a second, she stood up, shaking her head. Her bounded hands rose to knock the door, then she heard his voice from her back, "Sarah—"_

_Upon hearing the word, an anger she had never felt before swept over her. She spun on her heels, her eyes flashing, furious and unhinged, "Don't call me that," she hissed, "We both agreed I can't be Sarah."_

_He let out a sigh. "Kiddo, you _can _be whatever you want," he told her, "you just didn't want it."_

_"__Didn't you like it?" she spat._

_He shook her head in exasperation. "We really don't have time for this," he muttered under his breath._

_Her lips flattened into a tense smile, the corners of her mouth twitching. "Yeah, you possibly have more important stuff than me," she bit out, "so why are you?"_

_He gave her a look, aloof and measured, but not disturbed even an inch by what he had seen. He was Jason Allen after all, and he didn't do sentimental. "I arranged a deal with Simon," he answered, voice plain in matter-of-factness, "We're giving him back the formula, and in return he'll recant his deposition. We arranged the prosecution, too. They will offer you a one-year-deal. We're settling this down without a trial. Simon accepted it."_

_She laughed bitterly. "Only because he will try here later," she shook her head, "One year!"_

_"__It could be worse," her father countered, "We—"_

_She couldn't take it anymore, that placid coolness, like it didn't matter, not at all. "Don't talk in plural—" She snapped, raising her hands in front of her, "It's me sitting here with handcuffs, not you."_

_With her words, his coolness finally broke, his face distorting with anger. It felt good, like a victory, albeit a small one that didn't matter, either. "What do you want, Sarah?" he asked curtly, leaning down, "You want me to say I'm sorry? You want to see me in tears, dropping on my knees asking for forgiveness? It won't change anything. Won't make you feel better, either. You want to blame me for what happened, go ahead, blame me all you want," he said, then straightened back in his seat, "Blame me for your decisions." _

_"__I don't blame you for my decisions," she spat, voice barely a hiss, the anger thinning it, "I blame you for _yours—_Call the fucking police!" _

_"__I did what I had to do," he retorted, unapologetic ever, "There is no shame in trying to stay alive."_

_Bounded hands raised in the air, "By throwing me in the fire?!"_

_"__If our positions were reversed what would you do?" he asked, "Would you try to save us all?"_

_"__Yes!" she shouted._

_"__No!" he shouted back, his hand hitting on the table, "You wouldn't! Do you know why?" he asked, and went on even before she could open her mouth, "Because dead people cannot save anyone. And if I tried to do it in your way, that's what we'd have been, Sarah. Dead." He stood up. "So if you want to sit here playing the tragic victim, fine, do it. But if you want to survive this—" He threw the dossier at her, "— take a look at this goddamn thing I prepared to keep you alive." _

She guessed at the end he had been right. One year wasn't that long, but it had been a madhouse; the transformation under the Police Act 2000 had affected also prisons; with each draw you made, you would have never known which end of the stick you might get. The file he had prepared was perfect. He had detailed the guards; giving names from the new transfers, and the former RUCs, and specified each gang to infiltrate, and each to stay away. The file also contained one certain doctor Clara Reilly. She had had no idea how he had managed to prepare such a detailed analyze but she had never questioned Jason's sources, either. He knew things, she had always accepted that. Without the information in the dossier, she couldn't have possibly made it out of there alive, for one thing; she could have never coaxed Clara to attain the safety of the medical wing, but then again Clara wouldn't have been dead, either. She stopped her thoughts. Jason had been right; sometimes you just needed to do what you had to do, despite the outcome; it wasn't fair, yes, but life was never. Perhaps she was really her father's daughter. She had thought she had built herself a normal life with Michael and it had taken him only a look seeing through her lies. _There are no second chances, not in this life time._ She shut close her eyes tightly, shaking her head, as if to dispel the words. No! There was. She had proved him once, and she was going to do it again. She was.

A thud on the door broke her thoughts. She turned to the door. So Bruce Wayne decided that he had waited long enough. She couldn't stay here forever, she knew, at some point she needed to leave—her lair, but as of the moment, it was the last thing she wanted to do, not that it mattered. She still needed to do it. She cleared her throat, evening her voice. "Yes?" Hearing the unshaking tone made her feel a bit better. Yes, she could do it.

"I ordered room service," Bruce said from the other side, his voice poised like hers, too, nothing like the man who had cornered her just moments ago in the every sense of the word. "If you want to eat something—"

His words trailed off, but she recognized the olive branch. He was offering them a safe exit out of the position they had put themselves in, and she sure as hell wasn't going to waste away his diplomatic efforts.

She opened the door, putting a frown above her eyebrows, going along with the play, "This rattrap has room service?"

Standing behind the little round table at the corner of the room, he shrugged in disinterest. "They managed with a toasted sandwich and potato salad."

She sniffed, taking the smell of toasting, walking toward him, "Good," she sat down on a chair, "I'm starving."

He settled on the opposite chair, and took one of sandwiches. He started eating it in silence. She did the same but couldn't help herself from giving him side-glances. He pretended he hadn't noticed. The silence in the room grew tenser with each moment they sat in front of each other without uttering any word, until she felt all of her muscles strained under duress. She took another bite from her sandwich then locked her eyes on him.

He looked at her back motionlessly. Swallowing, she shook her head. "So you aren't gonna ask me questions?" she demanded, almost furiously.

Putting his sandwich on the table, he only said, "I figured out if you wanted to talk about it you would bring it up—" his eyes found hers again, "and now you have—"

"You say that like you'd have let me off the hook even I haven't," she cut him off, not buying it.

"Not going to apologize for being who I am, either, Valerie," he shot back the words at her. He stayed silent for a second then said, voice plain and simple, "You told me you don't have any parents."

Grimacing, she shook her head in refusal. "No, I didn't." He opened his mouth, but she continued before he could say a word, "I told you I grew up in a covenant, which _is_ still true," she said pointedly, "but it doesn't mean I'm an orphan myself."

The matter-of-fact words had him grimacing, too, the lines around his lips hardening, his eyebrow clenched. "Your parents left you there," he remarked with a small voice, his voice almost rasping, but she could sense the anger simmering beneath it.

She shook her head again, taking the cup of potato salad in her hand. "My mother was working in the covenant's kitchen. She died giving me birth," she explained, bringing a full spoon of salad into her mouth, "Jason wasn't even aware she was carrying me." She waited until she gulped down the salad, "He wasn't even in the country."

"But he found you later," he pressed further.

Her back turning stiff, she placed the cup back on the table. "Let's get one thing clear, Bruce," she told him curtly, "My mother is dead, and my father...I wish him dead," she said bluntly, her eyes turning to him. "Parental instincts can be an excuse only so far. I don't get a father just because he accidently dropped a few sperm upon an ovary in some distant past in a moment of...bad luck."

And once again, there was that look in his eyes as he looked at her, the prying eyes probing her, making her feel she was under a microscope, and he was the looking glass, and she was transparent until her last cell, and he could see the whole. But this time, inside that interrogative gaze there was something else too; underneath his inquiry, there was also pity.

She shook her head in defiance at his unspoken words. He leaned forward over the table, and his eyes caught hers. "Valerie," he spoke with a soft voice she had never heard from him, "If you don't feel comfortable with it, we don't need to find him."

She felt something seized her at chest, leaving her breathless, bile rising in her throat, her mouth was in ashes, her stomach burning with acid. She wanted to lash out, stroke down, clawed his eyes out of his sockets. She clenched her fingers into fists, and tightened them until her nails drew blood. "Don't expect me to feel _uncomfortable_," she hissed, "for someone who doesn't exist for me." She stood up then let a breath out. "I need to find Christian," she said, "and if _this_ is what it'd take, then so be it."

Turning, she called another retreat. She walked back to the bathroom.

* * *

This time Bruce didn't try to get her out, but eventually she did, with wet hair and reddened skin. She had taken a shower, a long shower judging by the look of her and the vaporized bathroom. Walking toward the bed in silence, she glanced at him, then sat on the left side of it, and started pulling her yoga pants out of her backpack.

Bruce decided he needed to take a shower himself, as well. He walked to the bathroom. He cursed inwardly at the motel that hadn't bothered with separate beds, and he hadn't wanted to place her in another room. Now, they needed to share the same bed. He sighed out, stepping into shower. This was turning into a further mess with every passing minute.

The moment of tension inside the room had subdued into their usual strain but there was still much to discuss. He tried to think of a way to bring up the topic again, but his focus was slipping. He wasn't sure which side he needed to dwell now; there was clearly history between Valerie and her father; and there was her contact who wanted to bring them a rogue in, and he didn't even know where this father was.

When he returned to the room, he found her lying on her back on the sheets at the left side of the bed, as she had demanded. His eyes took a glance of the skeleton armchair and he walked to there. Slowly, he sat on the chair. She was pretending asleep, and for the moment Bruce didn't see any reason to call her on the act. Another minute passed in the silence then she shook her head. "Don't be shy," she called him slyly, her voice roughing, her eyes still closed, "It's big enough for both of us."

Her eyes opened, and she turned to him, her look drawing to him. He shook his head, shifting in the chair. "It's fine," he murmured.

A coy smile appeared over her lips. "Come on, I won't bite," she taunted silkily then paused for a bit, her smile turning to wolfish, "unless you ask."

"It's fine," he rasped out this time, his voice hardening.

"Suit yourself," she shrugged, turning to lay on her back, "It's not my back that would hurt like a bitch in the morning." She closed her eyes again.

Shaking his head, he looked at her, but didn't make any further comment. Granted she wasn't the first woman who made a pass at him, in fact, over the last year he had become habituated throwing women off his neck, but with her, it was different. First, she knew how to play that game rather well, and second, she knew what the other women didn't. This wasn't just an attempt to get him...in the bed, but a diplomatic approach as much as his own dinner offer; a way to clear off the tense air. And he appreciated it, even though he didn't approve her way of doing it.

He thought of the options. He would wait until the morning to question her about her father, or he would benefit from the olive branch she had extended. His eyes turned to the windows, looking at the darkened skyline. Darkness was a good blanket. It shadowed the truth, created a safe passage. He knew some things were easier to talk about in the dark than light, and he surmised her father was one of those topics. "Valerie," so he started, keeping his voice neutral but soft, "If you're serious about this, you know, we'll need to talk."

Despite his words, she didn't make a movement, pretending she was asleep. Bruce simply waited. After a second, she wielded, "Can't it wait?" she asked, her eyes closed.

"It can," he answered evenly, "But...there's no time like the present."

She laughed softly, opening her eyes. "Good motto," she straightened over the bed, and leaned against the headboard, "What do you want to know?"

"Is he ex-IRA, too?" he started.

She gave her a slight nod. Well, that would explain most of things. "But he left the country?" he asked the next, "after the Belfast Agreement."

She shook her head. "No, before it," she said, "he lost the...purpose, I guess. I don't know. He wasn't used to talk it about much," she went on, revealing finally they had been in touch in the past, "Once he said he was an idiot, a grateful idiot. He wanted to change the world then realized the world doesn't need them changing it." She paused. "Everything turns out the way it's supposed to," she intoned, shrugging.

"He's a deserter?" he asked, his eyebrows clenched with a frown. That hardly made a sense. She shrugged again. "That guy—Rory," Bruce went on, "Your contact said he _adores_ your father. How does a rogue adores a deserter?"

"I don't know," she said, opening her palms to sides, "But if Sean says it, it must be correct." Bruce gave her a look, doubt clouding it. "Sean wouldn't demand something like this, unless he's certain that it'd work," she insisted, then paused, her lips turning down in thoughts. "Perhaps something happened in the past. He helped him out of a tight spot, saved his life—" Her eyes found him, a mocking smile appearing over her lips, as she gave him a meaningful look, "You know, there is honor among thieves."

He scowled at the mocking words, staring at her hard. She smiled wider. "So you were together with him before in the past?" he asked back, getting on the defense, his eyes promising if she pushed, he would push even harder.

She got his unspoken threat. Her smile vanishing, she nodded stiffly. "For a while," she muttered, her voice strained, "He learned about me when I was six. He wasn't a fatherly type, but used to come to see me once in a while." She shrugged, pausing, "When I left the covenant in fifteen, we—hung around together—" She halted again, and repeated, "For a while."

He knew she had skipped over many things, there was one thing that mattered more than others; "Then?" he asked, pressing further.

She looked at him in challenge, and said slowly, "Then we grew apart."

Nodding, this time he let her. "So where is he now?" he asked for a brief pause.

Her eyes turned up to ceiling, staring at the ceiling. "Where he belongs to the most," she answered, her voice turning a bit darker, "In a no man's land."


	14. Part IV-IV

**Part IV. IV – "Someone he once knew"**

* * *

It took him almost two days arranged the way to the Philadelphia Corridor, where a no man's land stood between the lands of Egypt and Gaza Strip. When Valerie had uttered those words he hadn't taken her words seriously first, not until she had given him that look, her eyebrow raised in a perfect arch.

God, each day, this was turning a lot, a lot more than he had bargained for, so much that he wasn't even sure any more what to expect the next. He looked around, quite not believing he had changed three continents in four days. Egypt. He hadn't seen the country for years.

It used to be more, though. When Bruce had seen it for the first time, he had been struck with the novelty of its mystical charms and the beauty of its countless years of history. Now it seemed less; maybe because of the steady line of tourists coming to see the riches of east, modern people chasing after a sort of wonder and enlightenment; a meaning to their empty life—or maybe it was because of him. He wasn't one of them anymore. Unlike the first time, he was here with a purpose, even though he felt like he was drifting through the events; three continents in four days... Still, he wasn't the same young man who had been here years ago; he had changed and times like these made him feel it strongly, down into his bones.

Cairo had been different, yes, but this no man's land was...it was hard to explain. He looked at the ghostly town, existing in the between lines that had created another world, another place. The town, however, was an odd statement of multinational city that had people from all over the world. As they walked, he had seen Doctors Without Borders, United Nation Relief Administration, Red Cross, even saw the small diagram of Wayne Humanitarian Relief Assoc., which was the reason how they had ended up to the town in such a short notice.

"Smuggling through the border worsened after Hamas seized power over the Strip last year," Valerie remarked as they padded through the streets; steps wary, eyes cautious for very corner.

"I thought Egypt closed the tunnels in retaliation," Bruce said in return, his eyes turning to her.

"Yes," she agreed, nodding along, "It also created some job opportunities for some—" She turned to give him a look, "—certain type of entrepreneurs." She paused for a second, passing by a Falafel street stand, moving through the eclectic crowd. "He moved from Cairo last year. Runs a small but tight ship."

He considered making a comment that she knew quite much for someone she claimed didn't exist for her, but at a second, he didn't. So instead he asked what was obvious, his voice turning sterner, "He's smuggling guns?"

Valerie let out a huff, "Among other things," she replied, a sneer entering into her voice, "Not much job opportunities for ex-IRA operatives."

His face closed off as his hand unconsciously drew to his chin, his fingers slightly brushing his now four days long stubble, another reminder how long he had been away from Gotham, from the city he had sworn to protect and change to a better place.

This recon had really spiraled out of the control, and he wanted nothing more than returned to his city and put his mask on and did what he always did. When the mask was on, the world was a much easier place; there was only Batman, and them; lines drawn clearly. It was simple, it was easier. A smuggler was a smuggler, a dealer was a dealer; no complications. Batman knew what to do with them. When the mask was off there was only Bruce, and the lines were blurry more than any other time now.

And the woman that presented herself only by a fake name stood in the middle of both grounds, and the impact of the collision had brought them until to this ghostly no man's land where all borders overlapped each other, leaving only a tangled mess.

Standing in front of a wooden door of a three stories building at the corner, she lifted her head and looked at him, her eyes carefully assessing him, almost like trying to come to a decision. He knew she didn't want him here, didn't want him inside her borders, she had already tried all defenses why he shouldn't be here, but at the end she had caved in. Their life had collided, and he knew it was just another point of no return.

* * *

She had never wished to be somewhere else this much all in her life.

She felt like she was walking on a green mile, each step bringing her closer to the inevitable end. Closing her eyes for a second, she shook her head and scoffed at the idea. Get a grip, get a fucking grip, she told herself over and over again, but even curt orders weren't enough. She had dreaded of this moment for the last four years, hell, she even kept a close track of his whereabouts just because they wouldn't bump at each other accidentally. It was a small world after all.

Climbing the stairs, Bruce warily on her heel, she wished she had been alone, that she hadn't caved in and brought him. She had used first the usual angle, that his famous features would cause trouble but with her words he had gone into her usual retreat and when he was out of the bathroom, the Bruce Wayne she had come to know was nowhere to be seen.

In his place stood a man of in his thirties, his face darkened with a heavy shadow of stubble. His precisely trimmed hair was falling over his forehead unkempt, wet and sticky, his eyes hidden behind old-fashioned sunglasses. The dark navy polo shirt gone, he had changed into a light brown shirt that he wore unbuttoned over a white wife-beater with cargo pants in dark khaki, a leather jacket completing the image.

But what had left her case undefended weren't clothes, but was his mannerism, was the way he had carried the clothes over his body like all in his life he had been doing nothing but drifting in the god-forsaken-towns in the Middle East.

There was a practiced ease that only came from experience, and from one professional to another, she had recognized it at the first glance. She didn't know why she kept being surprised by him anymore, but each time, she did.

_God, this's gonna suck_, she passed in her mind.

A small tendril of doubt slipped into her consciousness. Why had she ever insisted that they found Jason, she wasn't even sure at the moment. Not only she had Bruce Wayne who was always full of surprises, she also had Batman. She had been right. He would have just found a way to Sean talk. But that night in the motel, that look, his…pity... Alfred's words, coming to her now ages ago, echoed in her ears, him trying to get her to see the light, so to speak. Was that the reason why he was together with her here? He wanted her to be a so-called honest person because she was pitiful as of the moment?

Pitiful...the word reminded her the last time she had seen her father, something she had never ever wanted to be reminded of... Perhaps that was the reason Bruce Wayne wanted to keep around her, too; she was so pitiful that he liked having someone around who was actually in a worse situation than him. What was that thing Jason had called on her? Schadenfreude. Perhaps it was the way for him to find...relief, by using _her_.

It made sense, everyone used each other, but the sentiment still turned her mouth down in displeasure, remembering the pity in his eyes. She almost gritted her teeth. She had never minded pity, pity was for good manipulations, but this was different. She was the one who was used here. Her face souring, she threw at him a pissed look, but as soon as her eyes found him, something shifted in her. Could she blame him for the same thing she was doing? Perhaps he was using her, but then so was she. At least, it was mutual. She couldn't say the same thing about for most of—her relationships.

Her eyes found him again, and she gave him another look. What she would know about relationships anyways? The only time she had something close to an authentic bond had been her time with Michael, and it was nothing but a wishful thing. At least, Bruce Wayne didn't seem to have much going on that regard, either, given that he seemed to let the woman he loved snatched by Harvey Dent, despite being a billionaire.

Sensing her gaze, he turned to her and gave her a questioning look. She smiled, her mind running wild to find a cover for her ogling then smiled wider. "We need to come up with a cover for you," she said, as a way of explaining. He frowned. She shrugged. "Well, I can't call you Bruce Wayne now, can I?"

He nodded, his eyebrows loosening a bit. "Antony," he then said. Her head titled aside, she looked at him. "It's my middle name," he explained.

She looked at him for a little while then shook her head. "If I didn't know otherwise, _Antony,_" she said pointedly, "I would really start worrying about your lack of imagination." She paused, "But whatever..." she shrugged again, "Tony, Johnny...or simply John," she went on, nodding along, "it seems common enough."

Stiffly, he nodded, but didn't make a retort. She stopped, turning her eyes to the tavern at the end of the downtrodden road, where Jason's hideout probably located, then gave him a sideway glance. "So, Johnny boy," she said, her eyes turning back to the tavern, "are you ready?"

He waved his hand in the air, "Ladies first."

* * *

Before she opened the two-winged wooden doors, she paused for a second, her hands on the surface. "Let me do talking," she said, looking at him for confirmation.

Not looking at her, he nodded. Valerie nodded back slightly, and pushed the doors open. They walked into, their eyes sweeping around at the same time, surveying the area quickly. She spotted the entrances, toilets, back exits, and the guys that hung around the bar. Behind the bar there was a stiff-looking native man, with bulking muscles, but he didn't look like Arabic, but possibly one of the extinct natives. It seemed suited for a place that seemed to suit the misfits from all over world, judging by its clientele. And she wasn't surprise to see that it was Jason's operation base, either.

Her eyes turning away from a cluster of the cheering men that were grouped over two men tossing dice on the ground, they walked to the bar. Bruce settled her protectively at the bar stool, her back against the bar, facing the entrance, while he stayed standing up, his entire focus divided over the room, spotting every little possibility of the danger, then his eyes narrowed at a man who was approaching toward them, another two flanked at his sides.

With the corner of her eyes, she saw the barmen's eyes skipped over the trio. She turned aside, and waved her hand at the guy. "Stella," she ordered to the wide mustached man, pointing herself and Bruce. The guy handed them the Egyptians beers, his eyes still over the guy approaching them.

Valerie took a silent sip form the beer, pretending she hadn't noticed, as Bruce took his in his hand, but didn't even bother with the pretense of enjoying it. She looked at the barmen again. "Speak English?" she asked the man, even though she knew he did. The man nodded. "We'd like to have a talk with Jason Allen," she said then, giving away to Bruce another tidbit about her past; her real surname, "Can you tell where he's?"

The one who answered her inquiry though wasn't him, but was the leader of the trio that they now standing in front of their seats. "That depends," the man commented in a heavy, greasy English. She shifted aside, as Bruce's body tensed next to her.

Her head titled aside, she looked at the man, "On what?"

"Who wants to know it?"

She stopped for a second, no answer coming to her. What she could say now. The last time she had seen him she had told him that she had a father no longer. She had released him of the burden of being...a father. How she could answer the question now?

Bruce, however, didn't let her ponder on it, stepping forward, he took the charge, "John—Reese." Despite her last thoughts, a chuckle erupted out of her. He glanced at her and she could swear a smirk played over his lips, before he turned back to the man, "Tell him Reese wants to see him."

"Boss doesn't talk with strangers," the man stated.

"I'm not a stranger," she stepped, her voice turning cold, "I'm..." the words halted on her lips, "daughter" couldn't leave, so she went with what she had told him the last; "someone he once knew." _You're not my father, and I'm not your daughter. I'm just someone you once knew, and you're the same to me._

The man looked at her hard, taking a threating step further, "Don't like the sound of it, woman," he snapped.

"Look like I care?" she hissed back, her jaw squaring, but didn't flinch even muscle from where she perched on the stool, her poise not wavering.

The man tried another step, but before he came near to her, Bruce stepped in, blocking his way. "Remove yourself off my way," the man snapped.

Bruce didn't move. "Where is Jason Allen?" he asked instead, as the whole tavern suddenly halted to a stop, breaths stopping, in waiting.

The man's hand rose but before he could even reach to Bruce, he attacked on the pre-defense. With a deft movement, he caught the arm, twisting it in the air together with the man. The man's back hit to the ground.

Bruce stood over the man, his motionless body emitting off that restrained vigor again, back rigid, jaw clenched. Still staying still, her eyes skipped toward the men on the ground. The moment had happened in front of her very eyes, but she couldn't even have seen what exactly had happened. One moment the man was approaching him, the next he was twirling in the air. It had taken no longer than three seconds.

His friends beside him were in the same condition, eyes stuck on Bruce, as the rest of the tavern. She decided they had done a tactical mistake. It wasn't the way not to draw attention, but as of many times she had experienced, sometimes the trouble found you even though you didn't look for it, but this time they were stirring up the hornet's nest. The guys stayed still for a little while, then with a battle cry, they launched at the same time.

Bruce still didn't react, only grabbed the man that was approaching him from the left side at his collar, pulling him toward himself. Their heads collided with a thud. The one from the right side ran to him, his body bent forward to tackle him down. Catching the guy under his armpits, Bruce shifted around his axis, and threw the guy over his shoulder to the table closest to the bar.

Then all hell broke loose. Letting out a sigh, she tightened her grip on the bottle and jumped down from her stool. "Well, you have your own way to blow off steam, don't you, _Antony_," she remarked, her eyes focused on the man approaching at her, before she caught the barmen who was about to jump over the bar with the corner of her eye, "Stay out of this, love," she warned, taking a hold of the enraged man at his neck, "I'd hate to kick an ass that served me." She bashed the man's head at the bar.

The barmen didn't of course take her kind suggestion. She turned to Bruce, as he had another man bend down in two as the pointed end of his elbow speared at the man's back. The guy flattened on the ground. "You should have let me do the talking," she grounded at Bruce over the cries of the fighting, flexing her leg to kick at the barmen, her back arched for support and strengthen, then shifting aside, she bashed another attacker's head with the bottle in her grip.

"I did," Bruce breathed out of his nose, his hair swept over his forehead with sweat, his eyebrow split a bit for the punch he had just received then angled to the left to evade another one, "It didn't work."

"Clearly you don't know me," she shot back, as he knocked out the last guy he was fighting, "I'd just _started._"

Standing tall and proud in his battlefield, all of opponents moaning on the ground, Bruce turned to her, and gave her a look. "For the records," she looked at him back, "I still prefer my way."

He opened his mouth to retort, but she was never going to know what he was going to say because from behind, she heard the aloof drawl she thought she would never need to hear again, "If you wanted to see me," her father said, her body froze as she kept looking at Bruce, "all you needed to do was to say who you're—daughter."

* * *

Sitting next to Valerie around the table in the room behind the bar, Bruce felt her nervousness as his own. The tension was oozing off her core, her muscles strained like she was stretched out over a torture device. Her face told the same story, too, closed and guarded she looked closer to the woman she had seen at the warehouse, cautious and distrustful, expecting danger from every corner. It was a look he often saw his own face, seeing it in Valerie's expression again made him feel—disturbed, but also made him realize something he hadn't before; how unguarded she had become to his presence over the last month. And how unguarded _he_ had become to her presence over the last month. They glared, they fumed, they smirked, they sneered, but they no longer looked at each in that way. His face soured. Truthfully, he wasn't sure if he liked that realization.

He moved his attention to her father as the man stole a quick glance at him. In his eyes, there was curiosity, but he hadn't made any comment after his grand entrance in the hall. He looked like in the middle of his fifties, pepper-white hair, but his skin wasn't wrinkled much, his eyes still glinting with a sly spark he often saw in Valeries'. Their eyes looked the same, too, a light green that would turn a darker shade whenever she was angry, open forehead, and slightly tilted chin. The resemblance was clear even at the first sight; she had gotten her looks from her father.

Valerie hadn't said any word after he had greeted them in the tavern's hall, and the man, without another look, had led them to the back room. Now, she looked like she was waiting something to happen. Then it did. Suddenly he smiled; a little tilt up at the corners, but it reached to his eyes, deepening the lines over his eyes; the smile, little as it was, was a genuine one. "What did you do to your hair?" the man asked.

She stared at him, motionlessly, as if she couldn't believe him, but the next her hand raised to one of her curls that hung over her shoulder, as if she wasn't aware of the gesture. When she did, her hand stopped abruptly. She dropped it down beside her hip, and with the corner of his eyes, Bruce caught the way she clenched her fingers. "I liked it," her father commented further.

Her jaw throbbed. Bruce momentarily thought of grabbing her and leaving the tavern, somehow he was starting to get a feeling that this wasn't going to go well, despite what she had said. The next, her expression started loosening, as she let out a sigh, shaking her head. ""I'm not here to talk about my—hair, Jason," she said, almost in exasperation.

Her father looked at her. "Time heals everything doesn't apply to us, huh?" She looked at him in silence. He shook his head, too. "Why are you here, Sarah?"

"Don't call me that," she snapped, suddenly losing her cold demeanor, her eyes turning to that darker shade of green.

Her words the first he had interrogated her echoed in his mind. _It's just a word written on same paper. It's not my name._ "You're a bit old now to be called _kiddo_," her father shot back, unaffected, his mouth titled up as if on a joke.

She didn't see it. Her eyes turned colder again. "I go by as Valerie these days," she supplied for him.

He smiled. "Strong, and brave," he intoned, nodding, "It suits you."

Valerie looked at him, still in silence, as the man suddenly turned to him. "Who is this...charming fellow that beat my people without breaking a sweat?"

They both frowned at the same time. "He's John," she said, her voice as even as the hard glare Bruce was giving to the older man, "A friend."

"Hello, friend," Jason greeted him with a mocking tip of head then turned back to her. "I don't mean to sound rude, but—what are you doing here?"

"I was looking for you," she answered in placid tones, her eyes fixed at him.

He shot out a laugh, shaking his head. "You're not going to make it easy for me, are you?" he asked, letting another sigh-laugh, "Why were you looking for me?" he asked.

"Someone needs to see you," she stated.

His face immediately closed off, "Who?" he asked, his voice dropping, his guards rising.

"Sean."

"Ah." He breathed out, a smile touching his lips, "May I ask why?"

"Rory Boyle," she answered flatly, "What does it mean to you?"

"The young Boyle?" he asked, his eyes narrowing as if he was trying to remembering, "Didn't hear from him in ages." He looked at them, this time his eyes narrowed in suspicion, "What happened?" he asked, then barked out a laugh before they could reply, "Hah. He's turned to rogue, hasn't he?"

She nodded, a strained slight movement, swift but curt, "According to Sean, he's in a cell that plans a...e_vent_." She paused, looking at him, before she stated again, "Sean thinks that you can stop him."

His eyebrow arched, "Me?"

"Yes, you," she snapped, "Sean said he used to _adore_ you," she snickered, and muttered under her breath, "Can't imagine why."

His father only barked out a laugh in answer, a sound like a rough stretch over the metal, rough but derisive, but then stopped and leaned toward her over the table. "Nothing of this explains though what you're doing here," he then stated, his eyes looking at her hard. Valerie didn't answer. He went on, "Sean obviously wants to the bounty they've put on his head, so I must ask—" he said, leaning even further, his eyes keening further into an interrogative gaze, "What do _you_ want from Sean?"

The muscle in her jaw throbbed again, before she managed to rasp out, "It's no one of your business."

"I beg to differ," he shot back fast.

She closed her eyes, breathing out of her nose, "Will you come or not?" she hissed with close eyes.

Another bark of laugh erupted in the room. "Kiddo, you know I will," he said, "I always come to your aid."

She fisted her hands again, tightly, her knuckles turning to white, in a way that told Bruce not to strike him down.

* * *

In the room they settled up in the tavern, Valerie was already drinking from the scotch she had picked up from below staircase. She poured a second glass, but Bruce held it before she brought the drink to her lips. "Valerie," he warned her, soft but with a stiff voice, "I need you focused."

She pulled her hand away from his, "That barely affects me," she shot back, bringing it up, but he stopped her again.

"You know the rules," he took the glass away from her fingers, "No drinking."

Heaving out a breath close to a sigh, she let him. They actually hadn't talked about it before, but it was universally acknowledged; you don't drink when you're engaged behind the enemy lines. Her eyes darted away, looking darkening outside. "It went well," she remarked darkly, "too well. He accepted too easy."

He frowned. "You don't believe him," he stated, but the words came out as a question, spoken in a hushed whisper. She looked at him, eyes guarded again, and for a moment he thought she wasn't going to answer, but tail back to bathroom, but the next second, she let out a bitter laugh.

"That he wants to help?" she asked derisively, then shook her head, "Not a second."

"Why?" he couldn't restrict himself to utter the question, still half expecting her to retreat to the bathroom.

She stayed where she was, though, and answered simply, like it was the most obvious thing, "Because it's him." She stopped and looked at him more seriously than any other time he had seen her. "We need to be careful," she warned with a no-nonsense voice, "and you need to start acting like my partner—" she gave him another look, "for real."

His eyebrows pulled into a frown as soon as she spoke the last words. "What does that mean?" he rasped.

"I don't have friends, Bruce," she said in return, "I have either partners or marks," she continued, "and do you know what they have in common?" she asked, arching an eyebrow at him meaningfully, pointed like razor, "neither of them spends the nights sleeping in the chair."

* * *

An hour later they were back in the tavern's back room, for a show.

"Let me if I understand it right," Jason asked with a frown in his tone as she walked to Bruce, her hand holding the first-aid kit Jason had provided, "We can't travel in the—conventional ways," She placed the kit with a little bit force than necessary on the table where _her partner_ sat in a chair behind.

"No," she affirmed simply and straddled Bruce over his seat. He _almost_ flinched. She fixed at him a silent look, telling in its silence. The next moment, he relaxed, or he forced himself to relax, as she could still feel the tension of his muscles even through the leggings she wore. Settling herself closer to his crotch, she leaned forward, opening the first aid kit's lid. "Remember, lovers," she warned into his ear sotto voce.

Inches away from him, his eyes found hers, darkened eyes fixing at her a hard glare. She smirked at him, but went on, "You know me—" she said louder, her hand reaching out to the red box, "I don't like people asking me questions."

Jason shot out a laugh, as she wetted the cotton with peroxide and pressed it against Bruce's eyebrow where it was split by the fight. The wound wasn't deep, wasn't even something that needed this much—_close_ attention, but she wanted to make things crystal clear for Jason. "Of course not, you're my daughter," Jason commented lightly.

Her hand stopped over the split, her body frozen. She opened her mouth, to leash out, but sudden hands at her hips halted the words on her lips. She titled her eyes up and saw that Bruce giving her that look. _"Don't,"_ his eyes said, as his mouth stayed closed. Silently, she swallowed.

"How fast can you prepare?" he asked the next, coming to further help. It had become a routine; Bruce Wayne rushing to her rescue, from whatever danger. When that had happened, when she had become this—saddled to him, she had no idea, but here she was, sitting on his lap, so close that she could feel his breath, his hands holding her gently at hips in support, his eyes heavy with that look. It was crazy, but it was also real, she could _feel_ it.

"Well, that depends," Jason answered, shrugging.

"On what?" Bruce asked back, his tone getting rougher, close to that rasp she heard occasionally from him. She almost shivered.

"On how fast can explain what you're really doing here—" Jason paused for a second, as they shared another look, his fingers tightening over her hips further, "Mr. Wayne."


	15. Part IV-V

**Part IV. V – Operation Bat***

* * *

If she had felt the tension in the air would have suffocated earlier, that was before she saw the looks Bruce was giving to Jason. Seated around the table, Jason pretended he didn't of course notice, instead took out his pocket knife out of his jacket with a smooth but disinterested movement, unconcerned of the bomb he had dropped unto them. Carrying with his aloofness, he provided an apple out of nowhere, and started slicing it with a meticulousness that clashed with everything else of him, his eyes still fixated on Bruce. He brought a piece to his mouth, the thin slice balanced on the sharp edge of the knife. His tongue flicked over the edge before the apple vanished into his mouth.

Barely keeping herself rolling eyes as a surge of irritation washed over her, she reviewed the situation. She wasn't sure how he had realized the truth. Bruce's camouflage was good, in fact one of the best she had ever seen, and she didn't like what that implied, either, that Jason knew their—connection. Her face soured, her mouth sat in with a grimace. Goddamn him to hell. But whatever he might know, there was another thing she couldn't help but notice, either; he had waited until they were alone in the back room to make his declaration, clear of any prying eyes or ears. Jason Allen had already started playing.

"So?" he asked, cutting another slice from the apple.

"So?" she asked back, frowning. Bruce stayed in his unnerving silence, not that Jason looked affected a bit. For a moment or so, she thought of sending him a warning look, he was out of the character for the playboy persona that he usually displayed outside, but she didn't see any reason to be bothered with it now. Jason had already seen of what he was capable in the brawl, proof of his victory decorated over his face in bruises and cuts. God, she knew they shouldn't have come here, never. Getting involved with her father never boded well, never.

Her face turned sterner, the memories threating to resurface. She pushed them down relentlessly, not letting them into her consciousness. She didn't want to think anymore. Despite her best effort, though, her mind still stayed occupied, her eyes staring at him, but no words came to her tongue. "Come on," Jason said then in her stead, "Give me some credit," he continued, sounding _almost_ affronted, "You really thought I wouldn't notice?"

Her eyes skipped to Bruce, and they shared a quick glance but neither of them spoke. Jason took another bite of apple from his knife. "You waited until we're alone," she found her voice after a second. "I assume others don't know?" she asked to confirm, as vaguely as she managed. She wasn't even sure what exactly they were talking, beside _Antony's_ real identity. He might have recognized Bruce's infamous features, though, she doubted it. How many billionaires were there in the world, and how many of them had their faces known all over the world, down to this no man's land that everyone minded their own business? No, Bruce Wayne was a figure in Gotham, in America, but for the rest of the most world he was just a name, a famous name... Unless you didn't have a reason to give the name a face. One could never know it with Jason for sure. He had many, many reason to do something. Her thoughts halted for a second, remembering what she had told Bruce only an hour ago.

_"__Because it's him." _And he always had a hidden agenda. Upon her close scrutiny, still holding the pocket knife with the tips of his fingers, her father gave her that smile, all teeth and edge, "Of course," he said under his smile, "They don't know you the way I do."

She felt the familiar anger rising again, but before she could snap at him a retort, she felt again Bruce's hand over her body. He briefly touched her knee under the table, a slight brush, barely there, but it was enough to kill the lashing on her lips. She shot a glance at him, to see if he was aware what exactly he was doing, but his focus was solely on his father, the keen brown-green eyes giving him that stare she most of times observed directed at her. Bruce Wayne was doing his gig, she realized the next second, analyzing the situation, calculating the moves, evaluating the options before he engaged into yet another battle. The problem was that Jason knew how to play that game, too.

The tension between turned into a silent battle of wits as they stared at each other, both clearly coming to conclusions. "Do you know I saved her life, Mr. Allen?" Bruce asked suddenly, then clarified, "In Gotham."

Her head jerked at him. That was a bad idea, she had no idea what he was trying to do, but still she knew, whatever it was, it was a bad thing. "Bruce—" she tried to interject, but he didn't let her.

"He already knows," Bruce only said, his eyes never leaving off Jason.

Jason nodded. "More than anything it was a coincidence," he asserted, pocketing the knife back into his jacket after brushing the blade over his jeans to dry the juice off. She simply waited, every cell in her brain running wild, trying to come up with a plan. She could see where these was leading, and it was a very, a very bad thing. As a passing thought, her mind caught a memory, what she had presumed about Bruce at first, then, the cover story she had thought of while she had been on the run in the event that she was ever put on any _real_ questioning.

Jason gave them a look, shaking his head a little. "Even bad news don't reach here fast, but some things are inevitable," he started again, then stated unceremionally, "We heard about the Joker." She could see Bruce's eyes turned to a darker brown but from his expression it was impossible to read anything else. Oh, fuck, she did really not like where this was going. "No one cared, me included," he continued, "But then I heard about his—social experiments and I must admit I got a bit—" he shot at her a look, shaking his shoulders off, "—interested."

Of course he did. She bet he had found it—funny. "I started reading about the boats, and that threat to the corporate lawyer—" He paused and looked at her, "Cameron Reese."

She felt all of her blood pulled out of her veins. "I saw your picture," Jason said, still looking at her, "Couldn't almost recognize you, you looked so different, but it was you—my daughter, almost lynched by a mob—" a hardness entered into his voice, his face turning sterner, then his attention turned to Bruce, "and saved by a drunk billionaire who wanted to catch the green light." He halted again, then said, with a finality in his voice, assertive and certain, "You don't look like to me a guy who drive drunkenly, Mr. Wayne."

A silence followed his words, the implications sitting heavily in the air. None of them had made a single reference to the Batman yet, but she knew the same thing was passing their minds. Tossing at Bruce a look, she decided to take the matter in her own hand; it was her mess after all. She started the damage control. Whatever Jason knew, he didn't know what had happened, didn't Bruce Wayne, not the way she did. "He was trying to save me," she remarked with a cool voice.

Jason laughed. "I gathered that much, kiddo," he said in return, "but why?"

She threw at him a look, meaning crystal clear; she didn't have friends; she had either partners or marks, sometimes at the same time. "What do you think?" she asked, her lips pulling into a wolfish smile, the same kind his father had given to them; all teeth and edge. Thanks to all things good and sacred, Bruce didn't react, but stayed unaffected, his poker face firmly on. "I infiltrated Wayne Enterprises to get the information for LSI Holdings," But as she followed he couldn't help but glance at her. She pretended she hadn't noticed, her attention still on her father, "Do you know the Chinese company?" she asked to him.

He nodded. "But in the meantime," she said, "Bruce and I—" she gave out another smile, "You know...got a thing."

"I see," Jason murmured, as Bruce's eyes skipped at her again. Her owns implored to him—"trust me." He looked at her for a fraction of second, his expression not changing, but she knew he got it.

"I was there three months, mostly sniffing around to pick a trail for LSI, but one night, I—stumbled on something," she halted, her pause straining the air in the room even more, her eyes finding them, "something that changed my life."

Jason's eyes skid to Bruce, "The truth about the Batman."

"Yes," she said, slowly, the affirmative word uttered with a certainty that roughed her voice, "Yes, I found the truth. I discovered _what_ Batman is." With her declaration, both men stared at her, but for different reasons. She smiled, turning to Bruce, "What was that thing you called it, honey?" she asked, frowning, "The Bat Project?"

His eyes glinted, a small almost-not-there reaction, but she knew he got it, truly, got it. "No," he shook his head, "It's called "Operation Bat."

* * *

Bruce always knew she was smart, but all things considered, he had never realized how smart she truly was. "What" had been his first clue, the way she had said it instead of "who", but after "project" he had become sure. The details were still fuzzy, but he understood the gist of it; quick on her feet, she was spinning a tale.

"Do you remember "the masked guy in a dark suit" case back in 90s?" Valerie asked, leaning back against her seat, "IRA was robbing banks, but all the police knew was a man in balaclava wearing a dark suit. There were five different cases, but suspects, until one day the police caught three guy that seemed to fit the criteria."

As soon as he heard the beginning of her explanation, he realized completely what she was doing; he knew that story, too. In fact, he had even used it once with copy-cats in some extent. His eyes turned to her. He could acknowledge her...talent, but he still sensed there was more to meet the eye for that...tale.

Her father's look was still fixated at her, an understanding coming to his tilted eyes, too. "But they couldn't stick it up to none of them," he slowly murmured, a frown pulling his eyebrows. "They _all _fit the profile, but the evidence was telling one man, instead of a gang."

She flashed a smile, victorious in her strife. "At the end they had to release all of them because they couldn't decipher which one of them was their guy," she said, "In reality, all of them were their guys. Because there wasn't just "the masked guy in dark suit."

"No, there were masked _guys_ in dark suit," Jason completed, and grounded out a sigh. "There isn't one Batman, is there?" he asked, "It's an operation—"

Valerie cut him off, "A black op," she said, "_shouldn't_ exist." She paused for a second, her eyes skipping to him, but unlike other times, he knew this time her look was deliberate, "Wayne Enterprises works for Military, develops technologies for them. In the operations "Batmen" uses their—gadgets." Bruce inwardly smiled. She was tying the story to their case. "When I stumbled upon one of the stuff they're using—" Bruce's attention perked up again. He knew she had discovered the plans of the Tumbler, but he couldn't still understand the reason. As she had just confessed, she had been in the company for LSI Holdings, just as he had reasoned, but how _or_ why she had found the plans was still a mystery. The plans had nothing to do with LSI. What she had been looking for, he still didn't know, and it was still as disturbing as ever. "I confronted Bruce about it," she continued, skipping those parts, "then he told me about it."

His mind tried to find holes in her story, but it seemed sound enough, their so-called "relationship" was a good cover for the confession he had supposedly done. Again, he couldn't help but feel an appreciation for the lie, despite how she had played with him before. At first, it had come across a way to provoke him, something he couldn't accept, but couldn't deny all together, either, but it was also counterproductive. She could really multi task, he was going to give it to her, killing two birds at once.

"Then the Joker thing happened," she said, a resigned sadness entering in her voice, her eyes skipping to her. "We had a fight," she continued with the same tone, her expression clouded with the same morbid sentiment, as if they had really had a fight, an awful quarrel that had no winning side. Inwardly, Bruce sighed. She was a damn good actress, so much that it was disturbing to watch her "playing". "I—I wanted to stop it, wanted to tell the truth, he didn't let me."

Jason was staring at her, hard. ""But you did," he stated, but the words were still looking for a confirmation.

She shrugged, "People were dying," she said, "I could stop it." Her statement made him almost frown. They sounded true, like she really wanted to stop it, wanted to help. Alfred had told him that she had said in a small way she had even wanted to help when she had called Engels. Could that to be true, that she might have another reason to do what she had tried to do beside the money, he didn't know. Her words passed through his mind like a flash; w_hat would you have me do instead? People were dying and you were doing nothing. _He had always taken them as a way of justification for her act but perhaps in deep down, on a subconscious level, she had been saying the truth. She thought she could stop it, by throwing _him_ to the lions.

His eyes turned to her father, and he saw the older man looking at her in a way he couldn't decipher. "Of course, you did," the man muttered, voice sounding...exasperated. This time he frowned, her eyes turning to that darker green. The statement angered her again. He shot at her a glance, a warning, and she got it immediately. His eyebrows pulled an inch further. They were getting rather good at this, talking with only glances.

"So you decided to go to that coverage?" Jason asked in the sudden brief silence.

Her expression neutral once again, Valerie nodded. "I was going to tell the truth, that there was no Batman, not in the sense of the words," she explained, the shrugged, "but well, it didn't work."

Jason scowled. "So what happened?"

Valerie gave him a fleeting look, and he got it, too. She almost looked lost, as if she was running out of fuel. The eyes looking at him were pleading, asking help. After that there was only thing he could do. Like always, he came to her aid. "After the words about the Joker got out," he answered in her stead, the mention of the clown straining his voice, "The order was to stay put," he said slowly, "They wanted to clear her out without getting their hands dirty."

"But you didn't listen," her father said, his mouth turning down into a grimace.

He nailed his eyes at the man, and spoke clearly, making every word poignant and precise, taking the bar to another level, "She's the woman I love. I wouldn't have let anything happen to her." His look skipped to her, as Valerie stared at him, eyes widened, "I would _never._"

* * *

As they walked back to the room upstairs, the last words were still echoing in her ears... _She's the woman I love... _His professing of love wasn't anything but a lie, of course, but there was still some truth in his words, that he wouldn't have let anything happen to her, because he hadn't. Whenever she needed, she always found him there, offering help. With a shake of head, she dispelled the thought. He had his own reasons to help her, reasons that she couldn't understand fully, but she still knew none of them was about "love."

His declaration had put a stop in the discussion, as if the mere words would explain everything. For a moment or so, she wished they would really have, it would be easy; love would explain many, many illogical stupid thing.

She let out a sigh. They had managed to get around this at the last moment, but she had no idea how they could dodge the eventual conversation that Jason was going to demand from them. She knew he was, it was his nature, wouldn't do anything else. For whatever reasons, he had accepted to help her, perhaps because of "love", too, she passed in her mind derisively, but he was still going to want to learn what she wanted from Sean. There was only one answer for that question that would sound acceptable, and it was unfortunately the truth. And she most certainly didn't want to do it, didn't want to tell him that she was looking for Christian.

Why anyone would want that?

Bruce opened the room and locked the door behind as soon as she walked in. "Do—" she started, but in a heartbeat he walked in on her, getting her back pressed on the door, his hand covering her mouth.

Her eyes widened. "Baby, I'm hungry. You?" he asked, closing his mouth to her hair, "Bugs," he whispered into her ear.

Ah. Not making a noise, she nodded. He released her and turned to walk over the bed. He took his backpack. "No, I'm fine—" she said, her voice words clipped. No, she wasn't hungry. She was angry. Bruce must have gotten suspicious of something, something she hadn't. She had missed something. Her face soured, as he stood in the room, turning a slim black portable tracker on.

Quickly, he surveyed the room, and stopped at the left corner, where the bed stand was placed with an empty vase on it, watching the red flash at the top of the device turning to crimson. Bruce tossed at her a quick look before he reached out inside the vase. When his hand was out again, he was holding a small bug between his fingers.

Shaking his head, he put it on the bed stand, "Hey, let's get a shower first," he said, walking to the bathroom, "It's been a long day."

He opened the door, and waited for her. She passed through, and he locked them inside. As soon as he entered, he ran the device again, but the tracker stayed the same. At least, Jason had some dignity not to bug the bathroom. "That son of a bitch!" she fumed with muttered voice, then asked, "How?" she perched at the edge of the toilet's lid.

Bruce chose to stay standing, his back pressed against the door. "I counted five men before," he said, "two were missing as we walked to the backroom. They probably came here while we were talking to him."

She shook her head in disgust. "And why I am not surprised?" She let out another angered breath-sigh, and looked up at him. "Do you think he bought it?" she asked what she was going to before he had stopped her.

He gave her a tense nod, "Yes," he answered then looked at her again in that way. Ah. There they were starting again. Another interrogation. She could see it clearly, the way his eyes scrutinized, his eyebrows clenching with calculations. "How did you manage to come up with all that on such a short notice?" he asked.

She played the usual angle first. "I'm quick on my feet?" she asked, rising her eyebrow. He didn't buy it. She let out another sigh, and told him the truth, "I didn't come up with it just _now_. I'd thought of it before. When I was... away. Figure out it might be good to find a cover story that somewhat would explain the situation if I ever put on—" she shrugged, "you know, _real_ questioning."

Getting her meaning, his jaw clenched, his eyes darkening. "You told the police you'd lied," he said the next, a strain entering into his voice, because of that prospect or the fact that she had thought a cover to save his ass, she wasn't sure.

But she wasn't surprised to see he knew her deposition. He was really best-friends-ever with the commissioner. "What else would I do?" she asked in return, "Tell them that Batman is a black op that runs by military?" She shook her head, "I have no desires to end up in a cell in Guatemala, Bruce."

Slowly he nodded, in acceptance, his eyes darting away. "It was a good cover," he accepted, words even slower, as if he wasn't sure how to voice them.

She shrugged, then confessed for reasons she couldn't fathom at the moment, "It wasn't exactly a cover." His eyes snapped at her. She looked at him back. "It was what I thought at first," she paused a second, "Kind of."

In silence, he looked at her. Heaving another small sigh, she started to retell. "When I found the plans, I thought you were giving him the stuff in Archives. The whole division of Applied Sciences was disappeared around the same time you started pancaking police cars and there were all those stuff," she explained, shaking her head. "You're a billionaire, and you have sources, so I just assumed you were backing and banking up. It was...logical..." she trailed off.

Again he slowly nodded. "How did you figure it out then?" he questioned.

She shot out a laugh, small but wry, "I didn't," she said, "It was Fox."

"What?"

"When I went to see him—" She hesitated again, tossing at him a quick look, "—to have a talk," she remarked, his expression closed off, "he asked me, and I quote, "and your plan is to blackmail one of the wealthiest, most powerful men in the world who is secretly a vigilante—" she clicked her tongue, "—that spends his nights beating criminals to a pulp with his bare hands—" She shook her head. "I got it figure out."

His expression was impossible to read. "Fox told you that?" he rasped out the next second.

She nodded, "Hmm-hmm."

He looked at her, eyes heavy but focused. She barely held herself not to squirm. "So you didn't know it before, not really," he stated, voice rough.

She couldn't decide if he had liked that truth or not. So she shrugged. "It was you—the man who was sleeping in the meeting, driving fast cars, dating supermodels," she muttered, bowing her head, "How could I think of it?" she asked, letting out a derisive sound through her nose, "I can hardly believe it now."

A sudden silence followed after her last words, in her mind her voice echoing; _you're the goddamn Batman._ She cursed at herself, her eyes hesitantly leveling up to his.

There was again that look over his face, eyes checking her carefully. For a moment, she thought of leaving the room, and she would have done, too, if only she could have torn her eyes away off his, and stood up. She couldn't; stuck at where she sat on the toilet, she was just gawking at him like a moron. "How did you find them?" he abruptly asked, his eyes still riveted on hers.

Her eyebrows knitted together, "Huh?"

"The plans for the Tumbler," he elaborated, and repeated, "How did you find them?"

Getting out of her stupor, she frowned tighter. "You know it. I found them in the Archives."

"They were hidden well," he countered fast, shaking his head. Inwardly she cursed again. "You _can't_ stumble upon them," he pressed further, his tone getting sterner, "Unless you're looking around." Pausing, he gave her a look. "What was it?" he demanded, "What were you looking for?"

Oh well, fuck it. She wondered how long he had been waiting to question her about this. And she had just given herself to him on a silver plate. She gave up a breath in surrender before she told him the truth, "I was looking dirt on Fox."

For the first time she had known him, Bruce Wayne truly looked like surprised. "Dirt?" he asked, confusion tinting his voice as much as his expression, "On Fox? What does that mean?"

At the words, she suddenly felt the anger, and tiredness, sweeping over her, finally the stress of her day snapping. God, it had been a long day, a looong day that ended up being stuck with Bruce Wayne in the bathroom, getting questioned. Her face twisting, she stood up, the agitation simmering in her veins, and walked to him. "That means, darling, you were both beyond the reason. You were dragging your feet, not signing the papers that would close the deal that would get me the fuck out of Gotham, and your dearest friend was just giving me _those_ smiles whenever I tried to do _something_ about it," she snarled, as quietly as she could manage, her face inches apart of his, "So I tried to do something about _that_," she said, "so I could get back at him those smiles." A smile the kinds that she had just referred to appeared over her lips.

Anger broke over his expression, too. He took a step further, closer to her in the small bathroom. "Let me get it straight, Valerie," he shot back at her face, crowding her, "You're telling me that we're in this goddamn mess because you were _MAD_!" he fumed in, voice rising.

Her face twisting, she shoved him off toward the door, hitting his chest, "For god's sake," she cried out, "We're in this _goddamn_ mess because you couldn't help yourself!" She walked into him, "I warned you. I told you he's dangerous. But did you listen? No, of course, not. So don't try to lay the blame over me on this one." She looked at him hard, and repeated curtly before she opened the door, "I'm _not _gonna apologize for being who I am, Bruce Wayne."

No more.

* * *

_*"Operation Bat" is from another fellow author's story, **McJunker's** "The Gunman with a Thousand Names." I've adapted it to Valerie's case._


	16. Part V-I

**PART V**

**Part V. I – House of Cards**

* * *

The next day started like nothing happened, like it wasn't them biting each other's head off the last time they spoke. He was polite, in fact, he was polite like he had never been before, polite and formal, contrived. When she had woken up she had found herself at the end of the left side of the bed, a whole fifteen inch lying between them untouched like a no man's land. Funny that neither of them had crossed it even in the sleep; she was tightened like a coil on her side, and he was laying on his back motionlessly, the boundaries intact, each their own side.

Somehow it seemed suited; in the sense of the words, they had been never at the same side, not really.

Wrapping the little black square hip bag around lower waist, she pocketed the phone, giving him a glance. They had hardly spoken to each other more than a few words since they had woken up, mostly "honey and baby" and she wondered what the silence was speaking to Jason in their stead.

Her face grimacing, she started walking to the door. Bruce followed, but she stopped him after they left the room. He looked at her hard, questions in his eyes. "Gimme some time alone with him," she said flatly, even though words sounded like a demand more than anything, "I'm gonna tell him about the bug. We can't have him thinking that we can play with us like last night." She couldn't take it anymore, couldn't take another night like they had forced each other to go through, shooting "honey"s and "baby"s before every word. It was bad enough playing in front of Jason, but playing it alone was—nope, she couldn't take it.

He nodded, albeit frowning. He didn't like that prospect, perhaps he even had another idea but he _enjoyed_ the last night as much as she did. It was a small relief, knowing that he had been equally miserable. If she was going to suffer through this, at least she wasn't alone. She started walking, a heavy breath emitting out of her lungs. She had no idea how things had turned this complicated only in a few days. This was supposed to be a simple recon; lay low and make a quick survey, then acquire your target. Now, it felt nothing but a disaster waiting to happen.

As she passed through the main hall, she counted the five men Bruce had mentioned before from the fight last day, their bodies beaten and covered with band aids, but the look they were giving her had a blunt curiosity. She knew they were curious, and how they could not? She bet they didn't even know their captain had a daughter.

A low snicker escaped from her mouth. Jason had hardly used to tell anyone that he had a daughter, even before their fall out, always kept it to himself. In the old days, she used to think he was doing it to protect her from any retaliation, but now she knew better. She grimaced, memories threatening to surface again, but forced them down before they slipped into her consciousness. With a swift but curt movement she opened the back room's door.

Always an early riser, he was sitting behind his seat, reading a paper in front of him. When she walked into, he put it away, on its back, she noticed too, and smiled up at her. "Good morning," he said with a sweetness that didn't suit this early in the morning, "I hope you slept well."

She wanted to tear the smile off his face. She walked to the study, and tossed the bug in her hand at him. "Don't try to do it again," she flatly warned.

He smiled even further. "Oh, so this _is_ the reason of the—" he halted for a second, looking for a suitable word, his eyes gleaming, "—passivity last night?" he asked, "I was wondering...if you lost your touch."

The insinuation had her face souring even more as she shook her head. "You know, whenever I thought you couldn't scoop any lower, you always find a way to surprise me, Jason."

He shot out a laugh. "Oh please, we were going to cut it off, if there was—activity," he shot back. She only looked at him harder. "Can't blame a dad for being worried, kiddo," he said with the same gleam.

Mocking words rung in her ears as the familiar anger rose, "Actually, I can," she spat, but before she continued, Bruce walked into the room. The rest of her words vanished. She was not going to have that talk in front of Bruce Wayne, she was _not._

His eyes briefly moving between them, he asked, "Is everything okay?"

"Just peachy," she bit off, her eyes riveted on Jason. If there was one thing good with Jason, it was that next to him everyone else's presence seemed—tolerable, even Bruce Waynes', "honey," she added.

Bruce gave them another look, his eyes taking everything in, but he didn't say anything else. He sat down at the table at the opposite side of the Jason's study. "When can you leave?" he unceremionally asked the last thing he had before things had turned to mess, picking up his trail like nothing happened. Valerie appreciated his ability to focus on what really mattered, she really did.

Bending down a little, he pulled a drawer, and placed three shot glasses and a bottle of Irish whiskey on the table. "The next morning, if you want," he answered simply, opening the bottle. "I have a cargo that needs to cross tonight then we can leave." He poured the liquor inside the glasses as Bruce's face closed off. Jason glanced at him under his bowed head. "One of your stuff, actually, Wayne," he said after a second, "Your last shipment has been blocked for four months at the Karmabu Salem's gate."

Bruce frowned. "Why?"

With a small smile, he shrugged. "Customs suspected it being used to smuggle guns."

His expression turning even sterner, his face closed off completely. "Wayne Relief sends humanitarian aid," he rasped out.

Jason gave out a loud laugh. "That hardly matters," he quipped, "Every little thing here is considered weapons at first," he said, "and it takes _time_ to prove it is not."

Deterrence policy. The situation in Gaza Strip was something that she didn't see any happy ending in the near future, but the reality was even harder. She let out a sigh, her eyes skipping to Bruce. His face was the same, expressionless but there was a glint in his eyes. "You're smuggling humanitarian aid," he asked, his low voice turning into that distinctive rasp.

His hand halted over the drinks, Jason shot at him a look. "Mostly," he said, placing the bottle inside the drawer again, "Sometimes guns, too, but it's less—perilous, and well," he shrugged, "Palestinians need food and medicine more than guns." He pushed two glasses toward them.

He gave Jason a slight shook of head in refusal, and she followed his example, too. She didn't want to get lectured about the rules again. "Who did you get in contact with you for our stuff?" Bruce questioned further.

Jason frowned. "That's me and between my—contractors, Mr. Wayne," he answered, his voice suddenly cold, "I cannot give away that kind of information."

"It's my stuff," he declared, a sudden arrogance in his voice. Valerie frowned, too, but Jason only smiled, taking his shot glass.

"Israeli authorities may consider differently," he retorted, "This is a hard place for a billionaire to play the savior, Mr. Wayne," he paused, his eyes fixed at Bruce, the glass over his lips, "even for one as...unique...as you."

He gulped down the drink in one swig.

* * *

Back in their room, Valerie sat down on the bed, as Bruce ran the tracker device in his hand, to find the room clean. "I don't like this," he announced, standing in the room his legs apart, his hands clenched at his back, facing the window to watch the outside.

She didn't quite understand what he had exactly referred, that he didn't like his father's involvement, or the fact that despite all of his resources he couldn't stop some things happening, so she just said, "Neither do I."

He turned to her. "You were right," he told her, his voice even, but truthful. She raised an eyebrow, "He's dangerous."

She let out a slight laugh. "Glad to see you _seeing_ it at last."

* * *

The next morning they were inside the cargo plane Bruce had arranged for them to get them back to Belfast. Jason hadn't asked any question, kept his silence even though she knew he had recognized the Wayne Humanitarian Relief Assoc's diagram over the rear end.

They hadn't asked any question about his last night, either.

Sitting at the opposite sides on the cargo deck's floor, Valerie felt again she had ended up at the same side with Bruce Wayne. His eyes fixated at them, Jason watched them unabashedly, a half smile tilting his lips up. She closed her eyes, mostly not to see that stupid smile, teeth flashing and edge cutting, and rested her head at the wall.

A few second later, she felt Bruce's touch on her skin, his callous hand holding the side of her head with a gentleness she would never expect from him as he pressed it over his shoulder affectionately. Her eyes still closed, she told herself the caring gesture wasn't anything but a play at her father's expense.

Somehow, it still felt good, though, despite everything, like she wasn't alone, like she had really someone who cared for her.

* * *

Belfast was like how they had left it behind, a stirring hornet nest, ready to explode and cast out a buzz that would echo over the whole domain.

Back in their motel, there was one guest now; the man she had confessed to be her father the last time they had been here. She felt a shiver run over her skin, her eyes stealing a glance at her father. Standing in the room, his whole exterior extruding that careless indifference, he didn't look like he was bothered by the feel of returning to home.

But Jason had never a place he called home, he only had places he hung around until it was time to leave for some reasons or another, like _she_. Perhaps, she was really, really, her father's daughter. When she had come to Gotham, she had thought it would have been her end-game, but she knew she would have never settled down. Her happy ending was seeing the world, one place at a time, and leave when she got bored. It would be enough; it was a big world, and she was getting old.

"We need to see Sean first," Jason announced after for a while, "Let's try to see what he knows—" His eyes turned to her, "And what's he really wants."

His words pulled her out of her thoughtful stupor and brought her back to the reality; once that dream would have come true, but it was too late now. All things considered, she wasn't even possibly getting _too_ old, anyways. "Do you think he's a hidden agenda?" she asked, frowning, and felt like a stupid moron as soon as the words left her mouth. Of course, he did. Everyone had a hidden agenda.

Jason laughed, as if thinking the same. "I would be surprised _and_ affronted if he didn't," he retorted, shooting a mocking look at Bruce, "We're not some stupid heroes, sweetheart."

Bruce's jaw clenched, but didn't rise to his bait. She nodded then turned fully to Bruce. His grimace tightened as soon as he saw her face. "_No,_" he forced out, voice rasping, even before she said a word. God, had he started reading her damn mind now? "Absolutely not."

Letting out a sigh, she walked to him, acutely aware that Jason was watching her keenly. "Honey," she started, softening her voice, her hand delicately touching his fore arm with fingertips, "Be reasonable."

"_No_," he said in return, his voice turning even more cutting, "Valerie, no. Not again." He closed in on her, and whispered to her ear, "Not alone with him."

Her eyes skipped to Jason then with a silent curse, she clawed his forearm, and yanked him toward the bathroom. Jason started laughing loudly. "Lovers," he muttered between his laughter, but she didn't make any retort, only pushed both of them inside her former retreat.

She closed the door. "For god's sake, Wayne," she hissed at his face, "I don't want trouble anymore."

"Neither do I," he shot back, "and it's why you can't stay with them alone. I don't trust them."

"I'm a big girl," she fumed, "I can take care of myself."

He gave her a smile. "Somehow I found it hard to believe."

Anger twisted her face, as she shot at him a look like dagger. She took a step forward, and closed the distance between. "I've survived this long without your _generous_ help, Bruce Wayne," she said, inches apart, "If you're gonna do _this_, you're gonna need to learn to—trust me."

His answer came without hesitation, his eyes blended on hers, "I trust you."

She didn't let the simple words cloud her judgement, even though she suddenly felt she was short on breath, her mouth dry like she had eaten cotton. "Then prove it," she muttered roughly through itching throat, "Let me go alone."

* * *

He did, at last he caved in, not before he put the wireless radio in her ear again in stealth, and warned stiffly if the connection was ever cut he was coming out. She accepted, nodding in silence. Somewhat the notion hadn't disturbed her like the first time, in fact, she even found it logical; if Sean had prepared something, she wouldn't mind a little bit help on the sides, not that she would ever admit it to Bruce Wayne.

Outside, as they started walking to Sean's bunker, Jason suddenly extended his hand toward, with hesitance unlike his usual brash deft movements. She glanced down and saw that a bracelet was resting inside his palm. She stopped dead in her tracks, her face turning to white like a sheet. "No," she shook her head, furiously, and resumed walking, "We're _not_ doing this," she forced out.

God, why, why it had to be this hard, why she had to deal with all of this? Why they couldn't just leave her alone? Fate must definitely hate her. "Come on, kiddo," Jason said with almost shy smile, "It's our routine."

"_I said no_," she hissed coldly.

The smile wiped off his face, as he became serious. The next second, he nodded. "I understand," he said with a voice even, then asked, "What about your box? What did you do with your queen bracelets?"

"What do you think?" she asked back, her hand almost twitching to end her connection to Bruce; he had had her box, he must have seen what was inside, even though she wasn't sure if he would connect the dots, "I threw them away," she lied. She should have done it. She should have really thrown them away, they meant nothing, but she just couldn't...each time she swore herself the next time she was going to do it. She never did.

His face closing off even further, he mumbled again, "I understand."

Without knowing what else to do, she nodded in silence. "I've been thinking about it," he said after a while, breaking the silence, "I read that you escaped from the police's custody," he continued, elaborating _what_ he had been thinking. Her body turned alert. "It was him? He took you out of the safe house, too?"

She nodded. Jason laughed silently. "He must really love you," Jason commented softly, "if he's willing to do all of this for you."

Oh dear god, she passed in her mind, as the silence in her ear became so tensed that for a moment she couldn't even breath. Bruce didn't make even a sound, but she wished he had. She shrugged in answer. "And you?" Jason asked then, "Do you love him, too?"

She closed her eyes, "It's none of your business," and hissed through the dry throat the first thing had come to her mind.

"Well, you must at least trust him," Jason remarked after her snippy retort, a slow smile entering in his voice.

She jerked her head at him. "What does that mean?"

"Come on, kiddo," he taunted, "I'm not an idiot. You obviously told him about your past, about yourself," he said. She closed her eyes again before he continued, "Trusted enough to bring him along with you to look for _me_. It means something."

For a moment, she only wanted to laugh, until she was breathless, until her lungs left dry, but she couldn't, the irony felt like ash over the tongue, dry and bitter. "Don't act like you care," she muttered, so silently even herself she couldn't hear it.

"But you know I do," Jason said, "I admitted it." Her eyes watered, and she gulped down. "I'm happy for you," he continued with seriousness, "I know it was hard but I didn't want you to live a lie." He looked at her, and slowly said, "I only wanted you to have someone who could accept you as who you are."

She couldn't help it any longer. She laughed; a sole bitter sound that sounded more like a cry than a laugh, acerbic in an irony that was cutting her insides.

_October, 2001_

_She glared at Jason, who in return smiled broadly, his eyes sweeping around her new house, her new life she had built; a nice house with a nice man; perfectly normal. "Nice house," Jason commented the same, looking around, but she picked up the slight mocking in his tone. She grimaced. She wanted to try, was it a crime, wanting something different than she had ever had? In his eyes perhaps it was. He pointed to the curtains and the cushions with a waving hand. "Perfect touches too."_

_She didn't take his bait, instead, waited patiently. "So he calls you Sarah," he observed the next, a smirk titling his lips up. Michael had left seconds after he had arrived, ever the optimistic one, trying to give them some privacy to work over their differences. She didn't know how. After seeing Cathleen the last time, the woman who had risen her up, the woman who was still giving her that look even in her death bed, she had understood that something was not right. With her. With her life. She wanted to make it right, but the knowing smirk he was giving to her was too much. Like he knew, everything, knew what she was trying._

_"Yes," she hissed through gritted teeth. Yes. He called her Sarah. "I—" she paused, what 'love him'? She couldn't be in love; it didn't even exist. No, she just wanted to try something—different. "I'm happy with him." She settled with that._

_"Ah…" her father sighed out, "happiness; hard to find…and even harder to get out of," he intoned dramatically. "It's the craftiest prison ever created, isn't it?" She didn't answer, only looked at him in silence. He laughed, a soft sound that echoed in her mind deafening, and took out an ankle bracelet of his pocket. "Brought you this from Egypt," he stated, dangling the thin fake gold chain with a light green scarab, "a luck charm."_

_She stared at him, then the amulet, then back at him. She shook her head. "You're not here to give me a present," she said placidly, her eyes fixated at him._

_He put the trinket on the table, heaving a sigh out. "I always bring you something from the places I've been," he defended, "It's our ritual." _

_She let out a sigh, too, in return. He couldn't buy her with shinny things; she wasn't a little girl anymore. "Really, why are you here, father?" she asked, "What do you want?"_

_He looked wounded. "It wouldn't be that I just want to see my daughter?"_

_"What?" she asked back, shooting out a laugh, "You're short on the girls that would throw themselves at men's arms for you?"_

_He shook his head. "Don't be like this, kiddo. Don't act like I forced you to do things."_

_"You really expect me to believe that you __**just**__ came to see me?" she asked in return, her voice rising in agitation, her hands wavering in the air._

_"I certainly came to see you." He shrugged. "It doesn't mean of course that there wouldn't be other benefits." He flashed a horrid grin; all teeth and edge. "A mere coincidence."_

_Frustrated, she shook her head. What else did she expect? "Let me guess," she snickered, "You need to someone to infiltrate into someone's boundaries?"_

_He flashed another grin. "Calvin Simon," he gave away._

_"__The CEO of Simon Medicine," she asked, frowning. Simon Medicine, a British company in the pharmaceutical company didn't sound like Jason's usual clientele, but nevertheless he nodded._

_"__One of his rival companies approached Jeremy in the Silk Road," he explained further. She let out a sigh, of course, deep web. "Claims that Simon stole one of their formulas. They want it back."_

_"__Did he?" she asked, "did he steal it?"_

_"__I don't know—" he answered with a shrug, "Don't care, either. They want it," he repeated, "very badly."_

_"__And?"_

_"__And, we're going to take it back," he answered, plain and simple, "Wouldn't mind a wing woman at our side."_

_She smiled. "Bet you don't."_

_He smiled back. "Enough of me," he remarked the next, rising his eyebrow, his eyes taking another sweep around, "How are _**you**_?"_

_She couldn't ignore the mocking in his tone this time. "Why don't you tell me?" she snapped, "You always pretend to know it by just looking."_

_He stayed silent for a second, looking at her, then shook his head. "Seems like we're always playing a game," he muttered, like disappointed, then nodded. "If you wish," he said, almost in challenge._

_She took it. "By all means," she shot back with a sneer._

_"You're upset, that much is obvious," he started with a shrug, "upset seeing me because I threaten your bubble. Make you remember your past, yourself, which is something you apparently have taken drastic measure not to do." His eyes swept around again before he began again. "On the surface, you seem happy, but there is something else, something deep down, something you try to bury with silly cushions and hideous curtains." He waved a hand vaguely in their directions._

_"You have a question you want to ask but you don't want to ask it because it seems crucial, and you're afraid once it was asked there would be no going back. So instead you play the house, buying cushions and curtains."_

_Damn the cushions and the curtains! "What is it then, what's the question I don't want to ask?" She aimed to sound belittling but instead it came out like a plea._

_"A really simple question: Is that enough?" He waved his arms around. "This…this 'home sweet home' is enough?"_

_She drew in a deep breath, ignoring the way her hands tremble. "Is that all?" she forced out a laugh and managed to sound mocking, like she wasn't bothered, like she wasn't horrified by any of the words._

_"No," his tone dropped, as he looked at her, "There is still the matter of your answer."_

_She closed her eyes. How she could fall in this trap. "You know it, too, don't you?" Tears welled up in her eyes. He sounded…resigned now, close to sadness. "It's not. The answer; it isn't enough. It never could be enough. So that's why you...play here...dating with a normal guy, buying hideous stuff; because when the time comes, and it certainly will, you can easily walk out, knowing that whatever you leave behind has never been yours."_

_She shook her head in defiance, despite the tears she couldn't keep at bay, not anymore. "You know nothing about me."_

_"__Don't I?" he asked, "I know you want to be Sarah...just a normal girl," he said, "But I know you won't."_

_"__I can!" she still refused, even not knowing if she really meant it or not._

_"__Then why did you ask "did he?" Jason asked back, walking to her, his eyes inquisitive, "Why you wanted to know about Simon?" She didn't answer. She had no answer, not one she would give away. She had asked, because it was all she did. It seemed natural. She wanted to know about his scheme. "Accept it, kiddo," Jason said the next, "You asked because you wanted to know." He paused, giving her another look, "Because you're missing it."_

_Tears in her eyes, she still shook her head. He looked at her. "It's okay, kiddo," he said, voice reassuring, as the softness of it fractured something inside her into a million pieces, "you can't run away from who you are. None of us can."_

_She thought she could, oh god, she thought she could... A normal life with someone normal; a family; husband and child...Child... Oh God! Tears broke down. She hated…no…she had to invent a new word to explain how she felt about Jason. Hate simply didn't seem sufficient now. "Get out," she spit, her voice like venom, "Get the hell out."_

_And he did, leaving her in the darkness._

_Three hours later, Michael was sleeping soundly beside her, his arm circled around her waist, its weight pressing her down against the mattress. She stared at the ceiling, trying to think of something… anything that would undo what Jason had said. She thought of the day they had met, the time he had given her the seashell she still kept, their first time; the time he had confessed that he was in love with her, still inside, her clutching him tightly with her arms and legs, her heart beating fast in its cage, threatening to fly away, free. _

_She felt something was griping her heart now; pulling it down, shackling it to the ground; something cold, unyielding, malign. She couldn't breathe. She choked on a silent sob, then another, and another. Was this a prison, a prison of...normalcy? Freeing herself from the arm, she stood and looked in the mirror. Lightly, her motions barely making a noise, she took the luck charm from her vanity table. The trinket almost talked to her; you can't run away from who you are... She thought she could; another chance, another life, something different... She looked around, but all her eyes saw was a lie, a house of cards, and it was falling apart._

_She tucked the bracelet inside her pocket, took the cash lying around, put her jacket on and went to door. She hesitated there, looking back. At least Jason wasn't right about everything. She walked back fast, pulled out the drawer, and fished out the small seashell. She put it in her jacket, too._

_Three hours, two drinks, and one quickie-in-a-bathroom later, in the hours before the thin line of dawn, from a phone booth, she called her father. "Tell me more about it," she demanded._


	17. Part V-II

**Part V. II - "****Trust"**

* * *

In a pub across the bunker of the smuggler, Bruce was waiting. He was in the same fiber of clothing he had adopted when they had gone to Egypt, only his beard now was longer. The pub was deserted in the early noon; one man was seated across the bar, sipping his whiskey; head bowed, shoulders sagged. His own body had the same posture, too, only his drink hadn't been touched, but had been emptied carefully at the other side of the bar.

He hadn't wanted to stay away from the bunker in case that the talk wouldn't go...peacefully. From where he was, he would make it to the bunker in forty seconds. So he was sitting in the deserted pub, emptying drinks when no one noticed, listening to a conversation he had least expected. He hadn't expected her father would have said those words to her, either, nor he had expected Valerie keeping their connection still open.

They had stopped talking now, and silence in his ear was speculative, his reflective mind wandering. He considered what Jason had asked her. He could see how things looked like the older man from his point of view with the lies they had fed him, but there were still some truth in them. She had always resisted giving away things from her past, but at the end she had trusted him enough to lower her guards a bit down. She had lied to her father, he had understood as soon as Jason had mentioned the box and gifts. The trinkets he had discovered...the trinkets he couldn't understand...they had been from his father. She had told him she had thrown them away, but Bruce knew the truth for a fact.

She wasn't a bad girl, not really; the more he discovered about her, the more it looked like to him she was just a lost girl who was trying to find her way out. But it also made her unpredictable. One moment it looked like she really cared, the next moment he wasn't sure if she would even bat an eye even if the whole world caught fire. They were really in this mess just because she had been mad because of _smiles_. She was intuitive, almost visceral, and also unbalanced.

But love... He emptied another glass over the bar when the barmen went to tend the other guy, his brows furrowing. No. He knew how it felt being in love. There had been only one woman he had ever loved, the woman was still occupying his every dream; the woman he had loved and failed. He had a connection with Valerie, he must be _mad _to deny it, but whatever it was, it wasn't love. In any case, he had closed that book. Relationship didn't work for him, he had made his choices, and those choices brought only trouble to those who were close to him. He couldn't risk it with anyone else, even if he could have felt something for anyone _else. _

That possibility sounded pretty impossible. Since he had known himself he had never loved anyone but Rachel. She, her love, had always been his compass whenever he lost himself; one constant in his life that had never changed, even in death. They had never had sex, yes, but had shared something even deeper. They had known each other.

His first time had been nothing but a lie, a dangerous cruel liaison that only hurt Rachel at the end. There had been other times, too, a few other people when things had been so bleak that he had reached out for a little mercy wherever he could find, but that was long before he had accepted the ultimate truth; there was no normal life for him, his end wouldn't come as he peacefully lay in his bed. Perhaps once it would have, but that dream had died along with Rachel. He had never intended to do this forever, but now there was left one future for him; his fight was the only thing had remained to him.

Her voice in his ear broke the silence, scattering his thoughts. "We will only talk about Rory," she told her father, "You won't ask any further questions to Sean."

Bruce frowned. She was trying to keep the reason for what end they got involved into this, but he didn't know how long they would keep up that farce. Her father had proved himself a cunning man as Valerie had warned, so he knew sooner or later, sooner than later, the man was going to discover the truth. "Like your deal with him?" Jason asked back, laughing, proving his suspects true.

But Valerie was adamant. "Yes," the word hissed in his ear, "Like my deal with him."

A bell rung. Bruce understood they had made to the smuggler. His ears keen, his body stiff, ready to strike at first sight of trouble, Bruce waited.

* * *

"Hello, old friend," Sean greeted Jason with a full smile that had a whole different set of meanings behind, "It's been long."

He walked into, his eyes sweeping around the bunker, then fell on the host, "Not that long," he said, standing in the middle of the room.

Sean laughed back. "No, not that long," he agreed, "Sometimes feels like nothing changed."

Jason looked at him straight in the eyes, Valerie stayed silent, but watchful. She had been dreading of this moment, but she wouldn't deny that it was going to be...interesting. "A lot of things have changed," Jason returned the words, "The last time I saw you you've been throwing Molotovs at the police—" He smirked, "Now you work with them."

Sean smiled back, "Different time, different people." He smiled further. "We all turned a new leaf."

Jason sat down on the couch, "Not all of you," and he stated.

Valerie sat beside him, instead of taking the single seat at the opposite side. If they were going to do this, it was time to pick the sides, and unfortunately now her side had to be next to Jason, not the opposite.

Sean sat on the armchair. "So Young Boyle," Jason started, "What's happening with him?" he asked directly.

Sean shook his head, shrugging. "If anyone knew it for sure, they would have already done something about it. They're—suspecting."

Jason frowned. "So you want to me leap into a situation you're just _suspecting_," he bit off. "Are you aware how this would back fire on all of us?"

Sean shrugged again. "I gave your kiddo a job," he replied, "never said it's gonna be easy. But if she wants to learn where—"

Valerie cut her off, "We'll do it," she said quickly, drowning the rest of his words.

Jason's eyes grew darker, narrowing as his attention skipped at her. She didn't speak further, as a sudden silence blossomed in the room, and stretched out, then was ripped off with a laugh. She jerked her head at the source, and glared at Sean.

"Oh," the smuggler laughed, his lips curled up with a smarmy smile, "He doesn't know why you are, does he?" he asked but went on without waiting an answer, "Doesn't know what you want."

Her hands clenched. "It's none of your business."

"I beg to differ," Sean shot back, "It _is_. If that old thing between you is gonna cause problems—"

This time it was Jason who cut him off, "It won't," he said placidly and stood up, "You'll get your answers, and your—money, old friend."

She followed his example; stood up and walked to the door, acutely aware of the hesitance in the words before he had uttered "money".

* * *

On their way back to the motel, they gathered Bruce from the pub across the street. Inside, she gazed at the drink in front of him with eager eyes, but the look he gave her was enough to kill the request even before she had made it. Immovable, and unbreakable, Bruce did not break his rules, she realized, whether for no-killing-policy or for no-drinking. With no killing rule she was fine, despite that he didn't let her carry a gun, which they would need to talk about soon, but with drinking there would be made some amendments. God, she really needed a drink.

Though, she told herself, it went well, all things considered. It would have been worse. Jason hadn't questioned her reasons, perhaps because he was trying to proving that they didn't matter, even though she barely could believe it. It wasn't Jason, he was a curious mind that hated leave unanswered questions behind; it wasn't his nature. Then there was that hesitancy, too.

Half an hour later, they were back to the motel, Jason accompanying them to their room too. As soon as they walked into the neglected room, Bruce asked him, not losing any time, "Rory—can you approach him directly?"

He shook his head. "No," he answered, "he would just get more suspicious. We need to learn what he's up to at first."

She stood up from her seat. "Let's get to the work, then."

* * *

There were ways to put someone on surveillance, depending on the degrees of how deeply you want to know about your target's life, and what kind of situation he was allegedly to be in. If Batman was in his own turf, just collecting information through his neat web of CIs, the job would be easier. Most of times, to catch a dealer or smuggler, just hacking into the cell phone and the bank accounts was enough to fry to the fish, but this time it was different.

Firstly, he wasn't in Gotham, where he had most of the city, still, despite everything, and second, Rory Boyle wasn't some common criminal. He wasn't exactly sure _what _he is, that was the thing they were trying to unbury, but if their suspicion were correct, their moves would cause much bigger problems that would complicate the situation even further.

However, the first step was one of the basics; hacking into the phone. Inside the car, Bruce pulled off his jacket's arm upward, and started wrapping his wrist with bandages up to his forearm. Rory worked in the Belfast Memorial Hospital as a janitor, six days in a week, shifts changing per week. This week his turn for the day shift, so they had calculated the least risky way to bump into him would be the noon time where E.R. would be swarming with people.

He shifted a look at Valerie as she busied with the computer over her knees, sitting next to him on the passenger seat but she pretended she hadn't noticed. With a contained sigh, he left the car. She wasn't happy, in fact she was far from happy, especially on the fact that she got sidelined with her father, but Bruce didn't want to take any chances. He supposed he could have sent her too, that would be even more logical given that her features were _less_ famous than his, but Bruce really didn't want to take any chances. Given things how usually turned with her, he had a feeling that this thing would escalate fast. He could not sit on the bylines any more.

Crossing the street for the entrance of E.R, he swept the area with quick eyes. Nothing seemed out of the place, the place had all the usual busyness of a public hospital in the day time, a tragedy always waiting to happen. An ambulance passed by him, as he walked to the automatic door, sirens shattering the air even with more confusion and pain as a couple of medic rushed out of the door to greet it, their face already set for a battle.

Waltzing around the ambulance, he walked in, his eyes catching his appearance on the glass-paneled doors. A man in the sports attire looked at him back. He had changed his clothes when they had arrived from the pub; now he was a mere city dweller that had hurt his wrist while he was training in the gym.

He walked through the corridors, no one casting him another glance, his eyes searching for the young redhead figure with janitor's scrubs. He spotted him at the end of the corridor, cleaning the floor with a concentrated expression, his eyes stiffly fixated on the ground.

He started walking to him. "Have you acquired the visual contact?" Valerie asked in his ear.

"Yes," he slowly murmured, a few meters away, "Approaching."

He took the bug out of his pocket as the other one picked up his phone to clone the younger man's phone into his. Bypassing him, he dropped the bug inside his coat's pocket, but when he tried to bluejack into the nearest phone to him, he couldn't find his. Frowning, he swiftly angled his neck an inch, and checked his phone. No, he could see a few others in his vicinity, but those weren't his. His eyebrows clenched, he continued walking.

"Did you hack into the phone?" Valerie asked, a frown in her voice too, he could _hear_ it, "I can see his tracker moving now," she talked fast, "but can't see his phone."

"Because I didn't," Bruce answered, trying to spot the dressing rooms.

"What?" she asked, "What do you mean you didn't?"

"There wasn't a phone on him," he explained simply.

She paused for a second, "Perhaps he left it in the dressing room," she said the next.

His lips cracked up a little. "I'm already on my way," he informed her.

"Ah," she huffed, "Right." She paused again. "You need to place another tracker on his civilian clothes anyways. He can't go out with scrubs."

"Yes," he said, his tone slightly getting irritated, being told what to do. He was _already_ going to do that. Without any further comment, he approached to the camera in front of the dressing room from behind, and took out the small EMP target out of his pocket. His hand beside his hip, he angled it upward, at the direct line of the camera, and sent a quick pulse that would put the camera off for a few seconds. When the camera's red light turned off, he quickly moved his way in, and looked at the more than two dozen metal cabinets that lined up against the wall.

Oh well.

He quickly started with the last one from the left, and it turned out it was his lucky day. At the fifth try, he found out Rory's cabinet. He quickly went over his stuff, first his wallet, only had a small of amount money and an old condom, looking like it had been there for a time, and a photo of a small child. He put it back, and went through the man's other stuff. Nothing seemed out of place, again. He dropped another tracker inside his jeans, but couldn't find any phone again.

Five minutes later, he was back in the car. As soon as he sat on the driver's seat, Valerie fumed, "He doesn't have a phone?" She raised her hand in the car, "Who doesn't have a phone in this age?"

A half-mouthed voice muttered from behind, "I don't," Jason said. They both craned their necks to look at the older man. He shrugged. "You'd never who else might listen to at the other end."

Rolling her eyes, shaking her head slightly turned back. "So what are we going to do?" she asked.

"The usual stuff," Bruce answered, "We're gonna track him around the clock."

* * *

Bruce and Jason went to Rory's house, leaving her behind in front of the hospital to watch the man if he left the work. She was getting a pretty bad feeling about all of this, just she had expected. Nothing, nothing involved her father ever went well.

And now, Bruce and him had become team mates. She shook her head, an urge to drop it on the wheel suddenly rising out of her. She was turning into dramatics. _Great!_

She touched her ear. "Hey," she called in, "How is it going?"

"Nothing yet," Bruce answered with simple but clean words, she had noticed that his words turning simple directives, or commands, or explanations whenever he got into the business, his other persona breaking in, "We're going through his computer now."

"So he has computer?" she asked, slightly laughing.

"Yeah," he answered, "No e-mails, though. I've uploaded his hard disk. I'll look into further into the motel."

"Okay," she said, then paused a little before she asked, "Anything else?"

He halted for a second, too, before he answered, but she knew he had understood what "else" she had referred to. "He behaves, Valerie," he suddenly said with a small voice, "Relax."

She scoffed in answer, closing the line. She would really like to relax, but she had no idea how.

Half an hour later, Rory appeared in front of the main entrance, his eyes giving side glances at each sides of the sidewalk. Her back straightened as he turned to left and started walking. She checked the clock at the dashboard. Four and forty. There were still twenty minutes before the shift ended. She quickly pulled the car out of the curb. "Bruce," she said, as she followed him, but his pace was so slow for her to maintain him in the rush of the day. "He left the work early," he said, as a few klaxon started howling behind her. Cursing, she hastened her pace, her eyes shifting to the computer at the passenger's seat to determine the route.

"Maintain your distance," the order came immediately, "Don't do anything. I want to see where he's going."

She nodded, and confirmed, "I'm on him with the tracker."

"Good," he said, "We're leaving. Send me your position."

She did. Fifteen minutes later, the red dot on the tablet stopped at a few blocks away from her. She quickly sent Bruce's the latest position, and drove to the place. When she arrived to the destination, she looked at the two stories old brick building, her eyebrow rising above her hairline. Then she started laughing. She pressed into her again, "Found our guy," she said, still laughing.

"Where?"

"In a pub," she shot back, as the man went inside after greeting the bodyguard in front of the door. She opened the door. "I'm getting in."

"No!" the answer came out in a rushed rasp, curt but definitely, "Stay put. Do not engage," he barked, "I repeat, do _not_ engage."

"I'll just get a drink!" she protested, "I'm not going to engage into a fight or anything!"

"We don't know the situation," he still refused, "We don't know who are inside, either. Stay put."

"I—"

"_I said stay put_," his voice grated in her ear.

She closed her eyes, gulping, feeling grateful at least Jason didn't listen to the both sides of the conversation. "Okay," she forced out, "Okay, I'm waiting," she went on, finding her voice again, "But we need to talk about this—ordering thing," she bit off, her voice now definitely arose, "I don't like getting orders."

In answer, there was silence in her ear. Typical.

Waiting for him, she took a few pictures of the place for further investigation and searched the name through internet to find whatever she could. Everything seemed normal, apart from a few accusations that the beers served inside was watered, a serious accusation for any self-respected establishment. She couldn't find out about the management and partnership with the limited sources; that was going to have to wait until they heeded back to the motel.

A few minutes later, Bruce and Jason returned. She opened the car, as soon as they parked, and stepped out. "Finally," she told Bruce, and took his hand, moving him toward the pub, "Let's get a look inside," she said, "I've been dying for a good drink anyways."

As soon as she took a step, Bruce pulled her back, holding her waist, pressing her back against his chest. Frowning, she looked at him over his shoulder. The gesture was unusual, _closer_ for their play, and she saw no purpose. Then he whispered into her hair, "Look."

She skipped her eyes toward left, as Bruce moved them toward the car, his pace staggering like he was drunk. Ah. She looked at three men in front of the pub, their appearances same like in clan, down to their haircuts, and one of them was no one other than the young man they had been tailing the whole day. They were arguing with very shady looking people at the corner of the street. Suddenly, the drunken lovers act made sense. "They're fighting—" she said, watching them with corner of her eyes, as she realized Jason had cleared out of their sight. He had taken the cover.

"Dealers," Bruce rasped out, as a slight fight ensued suddenly between the young men, mostly consisting of shoving each other around like prestige fights in the prison. "Remember what Sean said?" Bruce asked, "_'They mostly deal with pimps and dealers at the corners...'_" he repeated the words then said as the trio shouted after the other group, "They're protecting their neighborhood."

_Right._ She sighed, turning in his arms, as her head dropped on his shoulder. She decided the moment would justify a bit of dramatics.

* * *

They spent the rest of the evening following him around, as he made his rounds, checking each pub on the block, before he finally made it to his house around the midnight.

She felt spent, the day finally catching up with her, even though they actually didn't manage to find out anything useful; something that would put an end to this madness. It had been a while since the last time she had done this, her last months had been mostly spent on being the prey, not the hunter. Though, she saw little difference, looking backward. The game had become just more demanded, more complicated, but she was still the prey.

Her face soured, as she climbed the staircase. God, as of the moment, she wished nothing than lay on the back, sleep and forget the day ever happened. Her eyes skipped to Bruce, his face guarded like before. He surely felt what she felt, too, but she knew how it was going to be the next morning; they would wake up, a whole fifteen inch between them untouched, everything safe and sound.

And there was also her father. Her eyes turned to him, too. Unlike him, though, he looked...jaunty, almost bristling with energy. It pissed her a great deal. He should be miserable, he shouldn't feel good. It wasn't right for him to look like that when she felt spent.

Then he gave her a smile. "Well," he said, his tone light, careless, "Didn't it feel like the old days?" he asked, giving out a slight laugh, "Me and you...on the prowl again." He paused. "I've missed it."

She stopped dead in her tracks, something snapping inside. _Because you're missing it._ She felt the blood drained off her veins. "Missed stabbing me at my back?" she hissed through clenched teeth before she spun around and walked to the room fast.

Bruce followed her a second later. She directly walked to the mini bar as Bruce closed the door behind him. "Valerie—" he started, but she cut him off.

"I don't wanna hear it," she said, taking out a small bottle of whiskey, "I need a drink."

"I wasn't going to say anything about drinks."

She let out a sneer-laugh. "I definitely don't wanna hear about _the other thing_, either."

He walked to her. "Look, believe it or not, I know how you feel, but you have to let it go," he said, "You can't...hate him forever."

She let out another laugh. "Oh, I can."

He stopped inches away from her, and looked at her in the eyes. "Valerie, you lied to him," he stated, challenging her, looking directly at her in the eyes. She fumed out of her nose, closing her eyes momentarily, not quite believing he had gals to say that to her openly, "You didn't throw away his gifts."

Her eyes snapped open, flashing with anger. "The first thing I do when I turn back to the manor will be burrying those fucking things six feet under in the ground," she hissed, "one by one. Every of them, down to every little thing."

He looked at her then shook his head. He took out something of his pocket. "He gave it to me today when we went to Rory's house," Bruce said, revealing the bracelet he had tried to give her in the morning, "He thought you would accept it from me." He paused for a second. "Valerie, he cares about you."

She looked at the bracelet, tears suddenly welling up in her eyes. "You don't understand," she said, shaking her head, her voice broken, her eyes fixated on the bracelet; it was too much, just too much, "It's not enough, it's never enough with him."

"I know," he accepted, nodding, "I know you can't trust him—and you have your reasons, too," he halted for a second before he continued, "but...perhaps, you can. If you don't let him—" He took her hand and dropped the bracelet inside her palm, "you will never know it."

Then without another word, he walked to the bathroom, leaving her alone.

Her legs giving away, she dropped on the bed, looking at the trinket in her hand.

_June, 1985_

_He had such big eyes for a man. Big, bright, light dancing eyes. He was her father. Cathleen told her this morning. "Sarah, come here—" she had yelled, "Your father is coming today," and had added giving her dirty clothes a look, "and you need to get clean. Wouldn't want to see you father like this, would you?"_

_She had nodded. And here, she was sitting on the swing in the garden in her white clean clothes, and a man sitting beside her, a man she had never seen before. She gave him a suspicious look. He didn't look big enough to be a father. She had seen fathers before, wrinkled faces and white hair. There were no wrinkles in his face, no white in his hair. "How old are you?" she whispered to him, suspicion lowering her voice._

_He laughed. She liked the sound. "I'm old enough." She looked at him again, still feeling unrest. His legs were sweeping the ground rhythmically as he swayed back and forth slowly, looking at her with a smile. She had never seen an adult before swinging in the way he did. _

_"You're my father?" she asked with doubt. He wasn't really old enough._

_He nodded. "Are you going to take me with you?" she asked then, because it seemed it was what she should ask. Two weeks ago Leo's father and mother had come and took him away. They were going someplace called America and Leo told her that it was really far away._

_But the man—her father—shook his head. She frowned. She thought the parents were supposed to take their children away. That's always how it happens. They come and take you away. "I can't take you with me," he said, "I can't be a good daddy."_

_"Were you always my daddy?" she asked this time, confused. Most of times the parents were the new ones but sometimes Cathleen told them they were the old ones. _The real ones.

_He nodded again. He was the real one. She felt angry. "Why didn't you come before?"_

_"I didn't know your mother was pregnant," he hesitated. "We-um-I didn't realize. I just learned." Her mother had died when she born. Cathleen, when she was angry with her, said it had been because of her. 'What a girl…' she said, 'No wonder your mother died of your stubbornness.'_

_"I live a difficult life," he tried to explain. She wondered why. Adults never bother. "It's not a proper place for a little girl like you."_

_She didn't respond, just nodded. Cathleen was right. Cathleen was always right. No one wanted her._

_"Sarah—"_

_Angry, she bit, "I hate it." She hated being Sarah. It was such a stupid name and no one wanted Sarah. "I hate that name."_

_Her father smiled, "Then what do you wish it to be?"_

_She pondered on it. She would like it to be…Amy. Her new father and mother had taken her away two months ago but once she had come back to see them with her fluffy dress and told her that now she lived in a very big house, with a room for herself and a TV! "Amy," she declared, her eyes widening, her eyes glinting, "I want to be Amy. She has a TV!"_

_Her father laughed, took something out of his pocket and left it on her lap. "I bet Amy doesn't have this, though," he said. She looked down. A bracelet! She looked at the shiny thing, with all the sparkling stones and gold. Taking it in her hand, she smiled. "It comes from a place once called Caria," he said, "There was a beautiful queen who ruled the city. She used to wear a bracelet like this."_

_A bracelet of queens! Something only __**she**__ had, not Amy. Smiling, she hugged her father, happiness fluttering in her stomach._

_Two months later her father came again, but there were no flutters in her stomach now. She wasn't happy anymore. Her father looked at her wrist, where he had tied the bracelet of queens before he had left her. She had taken it off the last week._

_He softly frowned. "Where is your bracelet, kiddo?" he asked._

_She shrugged, running her eyes away. "I dropped it," she murmured._

_Her father looked at her. "Do you?"_

_No. She hadn't. Amy had come to see them the last week and she had showed her bracelet, told her that a queen was wearing it before her. Amy had wrinkled her nose, said no, because queens didn't wear fake gold bracelets. Then she had showed her own bracelet; something only real queens would wear. Because it was real gold, not fake, not like hers. _

_She had shoved Amy into ground, sat on her chest. She punched her on the chin. It had been Cathleen who had separated them and she was punished first then sent to detention for a week; with only bread and water and no TV, and her bottom was still hurting. She hated punishments, she hated detention, she hated Cathleen, but more than anything she hated… "I hate Amy," she hissed and retold the story, and added, her eyes narrowed, her tongue was a hiss, accusing, "I threw it away. You brought me a fake bracelet."_

_She half expected her father to get angry, adult usually do, but he only caught her and settled her on his knees. "I brought you a bracelet that a queen used to wear," he said, "But I didn't tell you the whole story. Amy doesn't know that story—" He looked at her. "It's a secret." _

_Her eyebrows knitted, "A secret?"_

_He nodded. "Yes, I can tell you," he said seriously, "But you have to promise that you won't tell anyone else."_

_Eagerly, she nodded, "I won't!"_

_"__So quick to make promises," he mumbled, but she didn't understand the words. She opened her mouth but he started talking again, "Years, years ago, there was a queen in the old kingdom..." _

_He told her about the queen that saved her kingdom by wearing her fake gold bracelet. She listened to his father's story with widened eyes. It was so different from the ones Cathleen told them before the sleep; hers always were about the lost girls that were saved by princes, but this queen wasn't saved by any prince. She saved herself, wearing her fake bracelet. She liked it._

_Then she remembered what she had done. Her eyes watered, and she started crying, "But—but I threw it!" she cried out, in pain and shame, her tears a flood over her cheeks, "I threw the queen's bracelet!"_

_Her father pulled her closer, and his fingers wiped away her tears. "Don't worry, kiddo," he said, smiling, "I'll bring you another one the next time I come."_

_The next time he came... Tears stopping, she hugged her father, happiness fluttering in her stomach again._


	18. Part V-III

**Part V. III – "Semantics"**

* * *

The next day started with her doing her gig, slipping out of the bed like a ghost, her moves barely making a sound. Bruce didn't react, but stayed motionless lying on his back, even though he was already awake. As she tailed to the bathroom to raise her armor up for the new day, he decided to do the same. He stood up from the bed, put on a long sleeved t-shirt over the jeans he had slept in, and left the room for the public WC in the corridor.

The public toilet was even worse than the bathroom in the room, but he dealt with it. He had survived worse. He quickly prepared himself, sending a quick message to Alfred to send him the dossiers he had asked to the older man to prepare. It was time to see the situation a bit clearer. On his way back, he stopped at Jason's door. Perhaps it would be better if they had a talk first, too. He didn't want the man to get the wrong impression.

He had accepted the bracelet from him, because he had realized his attempts to make things right with his daughter were genuine, and he couldn't have turned his back on that sentiment, but he was still right; Jason Allen was dangerous, and Valerie was right, too; it wasn't enough.

Before he knocked, the door opened. Bruce frowned as the older man appeared behind it, his left arm holding his jacket, clearly prepared to leave. His eyebrows clenched further. "Where are you going?" Bruce asked, looking at him sternly.

The former guerrilla looked at him, a half smirk titling the left corner of his mouth upward, "Out?"

Even though she would probably never admit, Valerie had _really_ taken after her father, Bruce could see clearly. Without a word, his face stoic, he simply looked back at the man.

He let out the snort-laugh that he often heard from Valerie. "I was going to drop a note for you on reception desk," he said, "I'll check around, ask a few friend... We need to learn about this—uh—_event._"

Bruce kept his eyes trained on him as his mind worked over his words. He was right. They needed to know more. He needed to know _more_. He took his spare phone out. "Next time," he rasped, handing the phone to him, "_call_."

He turned and walked back to the room. He found Valerie still in the bathroom when he entered, the sounds of shower coming off lightly. He paced to the table at the corner that had turned to his work station, and turned up the computers. He connected to his servers in the cave with the satellite phone, and found the dossiers he had asked Alfred to send. One of them was on the trio Rory had fought last night. Valerie had started with looking the partners of the pubs, leaving Bruce focused on the trio, and the second one...

He opened it, and a younger version of Jason Allen smirked at him through the screen with the same edge of his older self. There weren't many things in the dossier as Bruce expected. Born in '54, Belfast, he had become involved with IRA as it had been norm in those days, especially for youth, as Valerie had said, and then went off-grid in '78. Giving the little tidbits Valerie had given away before, Bruce knew it was around the time she was conceived. The file had him returning to the city after a couple of years, and for a few time, he had been questioned for smuggling. His specialty had been marked as operating in the newly formed Silk Road black market in the deep web, but the investigations and allegations on him hadn't led anywhere, all cases eventually dropping because lack of evidence. The cases were mostly opened by a former RUC detective Charles Hollis, a half British half Irish man that seemed to have been on Jason Allen's tracks for a decade before his retirement. He made a quick mental note for the retired officer before he changed to page to look for the noted associates. Before he went to the foot notes, he hesitated. He had made a promise, a promise to accept her for who she was now; Valerie, just Valerie, no other attachments to her name, but he must know_._ It wasn't just between "Bruce and Valerie" now, not anymore.

He skipped to the bottom, and there she was, Sarah Allen, the illegitimate child that also bore her father's surname, cited as served a prison sentence for breaking and entering between 2001 and 2002, and marked as...deceased in 2004.

He stared at the screen, his mind drawing a blank. Four years ago. Deceased. Suddenly, everything clicked, the missing pieces filling in, the way he couldn't find her trail. She had faked her death, Bruce realized, four years ago, before she had come to America she had faked her death.

Questions turned in his mind; how, why, with whom... She couldn't do it alone. She had certain skills, yes, but staging death wasn't a walk in the park, especially with the level she had managed. She must have had help. Something told him it wasn't her father, so the question was...who? Who she had trusted that much... He entered a few commands, and in the dossier found what he was looking for, her death certificate, Alfred once again proving knowing Bruce Wayne as much as he knew himself. His guardian knew he was going to want to see the death certificate.

Bruce skipped the document, and found it; his suspicion confirmed, the affidavit had been signed by a certain surgeon named Christian Brennan. The surgeon they had been looking for. The surgeon she wanted to _rebirth_ her after killing her. During the five months she had been off-grid, he had always thought he had been looking for a ghost, and in a certain way he had been right; she was a ghost.

The bathroom's door opened, and she emerged out, looking _extremely_ good for a dead. He quickly closed the tab, and pulled up the other dossier for the trio from last night, his eyes fixated on her.

Her eyes narrowing, she stared at him back. "What?" she questioned. He turned his attention to the computer, without answering. He didn't know how to answer the simple question. "What are you looking?" she asked, walking to the table, and glancing at the screen. She frowned. "Are they the men we saw yesterday fighting with Rory?"

Bruce nodded. "Alfred sent me the files this morning."

Lifting her head, she looked at him. "Well?"

"Well," he said in return, skipping the dossier fast, "Nothing...unordinary, mostly juvenile delinquency," he stated, and started listing the minor offences, "Common thievery, breaking and entering, pickpocketing. They spent a few years in Hydebank Wood—" Suddenly her expression shifted at his words. Bruce realized the women and young offender's correction center was also the place she had served her own sentence. He looked at her, but she loosened her face a second later, adopting the practiced indifference that he had come to recognize that she bore whenever she was distressed. "Now," he continued, "they all seem to work for a small smuggler gang, run by someone called—" he checked the file again, "Ronald Looney."

As soon as the words left his mouth, the forced indifference vanished, her eyes widening, "Ronnie?" she asked back, leaning over the table to check the file herself, "They work for Ronnie!"

Bruce closed his eyes, letting a subsided sigh out. "I assume," he slowly commented, opening his eyes, "You know him?"

She ran her eyes away, shrugging. "Yeah..."

In his mind, Sean's words popped out, the first time she had gone to see the smuggler... _Ronnie swore, and I quote, the next time I see her, I put a bullet in that lying face of hers..._ Letting out another sigh, his chin dropped to his chest. He should have known. He should have known, nothing, nothing would have been simple with her.

* * *

When it rained, it also poured. She should have known that. God, Fate really must hate her. "How bad things are between you two?" Bruce questioned, looking at her, eyes drawn again with that look, and she was getting fed up with this, with that look, and with that tone.

"Very bad," she admitted stiffly, "He's cast out of his family, and blames me."

"Looney family?"

She nodded. "His father runs a good business, has many contacts, knows which wheels to grease," she started explaining, leaning back in the chair opposite his, "He had a deal with one of delegates in the Business Committee," she said. "The delegate's rivals approached us one day, he wanted to them him down, so they needed dirt, so I approached Ronnie. He's the youngest son...never taken seriously by his family, almost desperate to prove himself a big boy." She paused for a second, clearing her voice, looking at him. In his eyes, she saw he had already realized what happened the next. "You got the picture," she said nevertheless, he wanted to know. With her implication, though, his face closed off. She shrugged.

"I got him sing," she stated simply, "The delegate lost his title, his father lost his job, and Ronnie...well, he took the down fall. His father blamed him for telling off family's secrets, and in retaliation cast him out."

Bruce looked at her hard. "So he blames you because you betrayed his trust," he stated slowly, with a rasping voice.

Her face twisting at the words, she shot at him a look, "_His trust?_" she hissed, leaning over the table toward him, "I guarantee you, Bruce, many things exchanged between us but trust never was one of those things," she fired rapidly, "He gave me his secrets not because he trusted me. To him, I was nothing more than a pair of good legs with good tits that he thought he could fuck a couple of times before he got bored and moved on to another one, before he returned to _his_ wife each night, because it made him feel like a _man_," she sneered, her lips turning into a wolfish smirk, cutting but taunting, and destructive, "whereas he was nothing more than a little boy who _wanted_ to feel like a man." She stared at his eyes. "The way I see it," she finished, lifting her shoulders up, "he should be grateful to me. He wanted to be a _real_ man, and I made him one." She stood up. "So if you're done with accusing me being a who—"

He cut the word off before she could complete it, standing up as well, "I didn't say that."

"What's the difference?" she asked back, her chin up challengingly, "It was what you implied." For the first time, he looked like he didn't know what to say. She shook her head, turning to the door.

He caught her elbow. She stopped. "Valerie—" he said, with hesitance. She turned to him. "I'm—"

She cut him off, too, "Sorry. I know," she said. "It's okay. Sometimes we all say things we don't mean to. It's okay." She shrugged. "Besides, accusing someone being a prostitute isn't an insult to me." She looked at him. "It's the oldest profession in history. Only your manly egos can't accept it as legitimate, honorable business because in doing that most of you would also have to admit that the only way for you to find a willing company is to...hire it." She smiled at him, her eyes moving up and down over his body, and took a step further, "Not that _you _would have any problem on that regard, of course," she whispered at him, her voice suddenly dropping a tone down, rouging with the indications of her words. She smiled at him further. His eyebrows furrowing, he took a step back.

She laughed. His frown grew tighter. She laughed harder at his expression, shaking her head. "Come on, let's go, Mr. Wayne," she opened the door, taking her coat from the peg, "we have places to bug, people to spy."

Outside their room, she looked around, sliding her hands into her leather gloves. The cold, the cold was killing her. "Speaking of which," she said, turning back to him, "Where's your new _buddy_?" she asked, stressing the last word mockingly.

He frowned even deeper. "He went to see some of his old friends."

She stopped dead in her tracks, and spun toward him on her heels. "_What?_" she almost screamed.

"He's looking around to see the more of that—event stuff," he explained.

"And you let him go like that?" she asked, her eyes widening, quite not believing the words she had heard. This wasn't Bruce Wayne. He was hard to categorize, yes, but he had never been a fool, a trusting fool, nevertheless. "What the fuck did he do to you?" she asked furiously, walking in on him, "When you have become such a fool?!"

He looked at her sharply. "I gave him a phone—"

She shot out a laugh, "Like he didn't know you're already wired into it."

His eyes took a different glint. "Yes," he said, "That's why he shouldn't feel the need to check the bug I planted on him."

Stopping in her steps again, she looked at him, before they exited out of the motel. "_You_ lectured me I should start trusting him," she said slowly, but each word deliberate, "But didn't trust him yourself?"

He shrugged, checking out the street. "He's not my father."

Letting out a sigh, she nodded. "Good point." She looked around too. "So what are we doing now?"

He took his palm tablet, and checked his trackers. "Rory seems to be in the hospital, and Jason—well, around. Northside of the city," he turned to left side, "toward the city center."

She nodded again. "Let's check him first," she said, walking toward the retail car, "I want to see what he's up to, too."

Bruce gave her a look, before following her. He unlocked the doors, and she slid into the passenger seat. He started driving toward north. They didn't talk further, but Valerie could still feel the unasked question tensing the air. Once again, she felt like she had fallen into a trap. "Why did you—why did you accept it giving me?" she asked then, gazing at outside as they passed an intersection toward the city center.

"Look," Bruce said, letting out uncharacteristically small sigh, "The fact that I don't trust him doesn't mean I don't believe when he says he cares about you." She snorted. She knew he did, he had _really_ admitted it; he had admitted he wished he could have been a better father _before_ admitting that he also wished she hadn't born, either. "He doesn't ask what you want from Sean. If he knows, he would understand why you look for the doctor." He paused for a second, "Why you're going under all this trouble to find him," he halted again, "especially him," he muttered.

Her eyes narrowed. There was something, something in the words, the way he muttered them...so unlike Bruce Wayne. Her eyebrows tightened further as she squinted at him. His eyes skipped to her, too, and for a split of second, they shared a look, and she saw the truth. He knew. He knew about Christian. He had searched her. Her breath constricted in her chest. She knew he was going to do, sooner or later, he was going to check her file, but somehow the truth still stole her breath away, why she wasn't even sure. She cleared her throat, gulping, and turned her eyes away. "I was wondering when you were going to do it," she said slowly.

He shook his head. "Not yours." Her head snapped at him. "It was in Jason's file, you're listed as his associate in PSNI's dossier," he explained.

She grimaced. "So you looked at him?" He merely looked at her in answer. "That's cheating," she fumed, crossing her arms.

"I made a promise to you, not to Jason," he simply said.

She let out a sigh. "Good point," but fixed at him a look after a second, "Still cheating, though."

He shrugged, with an indifference she didn't always see in his actions, and parked the car. "Maybe."

Her eyes still on him, she tilted her head aside. "It's killing you—isn't it?" she asked slowly, "Not knowing."

He grimaced. "It's not every day I see a...ghost."

She laughed softly. "Again, good point." She turned to him. "So I'm listed as his associate?" He nodded. "What else the dossier has?" she asked. Since the cat was out of the bag, so to speak, she would at least determinate what he exactly knew. She would be surprised if there was any detail about her relationship to Jason, but she was almost sure that it mentioned about her sentence.

"A few citations," Bruce answered, "Your name, birthday, your...short stay..." His eyes bore through her, "in Hydebank Wood."

Ah, well. If she had made a bet on that, she would have been rich. She turned her head away, looking outside. Jason suddenly appeared on the sidewalk. She followed him with her eyes, but she could still feel Bruce's intense gaze on her. Then he moved his attention away from her and looked at Jason as well. "Is it why you grew apart?" he finally asked, mirroring her words, his voice so quiet but clear, "Something went bad and you ended up in the prison?"

She shrugged, as Jason walked into a pub at the road. "Something like that," she murmured.

"For breaking and entering?" he questioned. His voice was still soft but his words were not. They were probing, trying to claw an inch that he would run for a mile with it.

She could _not_ let him do it. If she was going to give in that inch, she was going to take back something in return. She turned to him. "No," she told him, "this isn't how we...interact," she went on, a tense smile pulling out her lips, "we don't simply share things."

A frown immediately appeared above his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"Well, we make bargains, don't we?" she asked back, her smile growing as his frown tightened, "trade secrets..." she stated, leaving "threats" and "blackmails" deliberately unsaid, "If I'm to give away something now, what will I get in return?"

He looked at her, taken aback. "You want to make a deal?"

She shrugged, "It's all about semantics, really."

He smiled, faintly, for a second, then nodded. "All right," he said, his lips holding the faint smile. Suddenly she realized that kind of smile really suited him better than the smarmy smiles of Brucie Wayne, and more than the frowns and grimaces that he always was a breadth away to wear over his features. He looked younger with it, almost relaxed. "What do you want to know?" he asked, amenability clear in his voice.

With the question, however, her mind drew blank. She realized she had never really expected him accept her conditions. But for some unknown reasons, he did. He wanted to...share with her...in their own way. Her eyes attached to his, she looked at him. His smile slowly disappeared, as he looked at her back, the silence suddenly growing again tense. She blurted out the first thing that came to her mind. "Last night you said you know how it feels," she asked, a catch in her voice roughing her words, "What did you mean?"

He stared at her. "You said, 'believe it or not, I know how you feel," she clarified further, "What did you mean with it?" she asked again.

He turned his head away, sighing out loudly, for the first time she knew him, the calm exterior of a moment earlier leaving its place this time not a tensed vigor, but a sorrowful weariness. For that moment, he didn't look young or wired up. He simply looked too old for an age that young, an expression she sometimes saw over her features as well, when it was dark and there was no one else to see it around.

She shivered, but quietly waited as he looked at the street, people going by, readying for a new day, muddling through the everyday life; some animate some crestfallen, but they all seemed to fit into the bigger puzzle. Not like them. Again, she felt that thing as she had walked to his house, not fitting in, like they were stuck out like pieces of an already complete puzzle, pieces that no one knew what to do with.

"What Alfred told you about Ra's Al Ghul?" he asked then, his eyes still fixed at the windows, not looking at her.

Then she understood. "That he was a terrorist," she answered with a small voice, "that used to be also your mentor."

He nodded. "His real name was Ducard," he said, turning to her, his voice now clear, without any sadness or weariness, but matter of fact, "Henri Ducard. Ra's Al Ghul is nothing more than a title for the man he became." She stayed silent as he started again. "Years ago, he found me in a forsaken pit, saved me, gave me a purpose. He showed me a path." He shook his head. "I only didn't understand it wasn't a path I could follow him through."

She passed in her mind what she had read about this secret terrorist group that no one seemed to know until too late, and what Alfred had already told her about. "He trained you?" she asked.

He nodded. "League of Shadows," he asserted sotto voce, "The destroyers of cities, the harbingers of change." He shook his head again, his lips pulling out a cutting smile, more than anything at himself, "I thought we were going to change the world."

"The graceful idiots," she murmured. Bruce looked at her again.

"Only they aim to change the world by simply annihilating whatever they think is not worthy."

She took a breath in. "Like Gotham?"

"A whole city," he said in return, "they crossed over a whole city, deemed it unsalvageable. Gotham...it's not the best place in the world, I know, but there is still good people in it." His eyes skipped at her with the last words.

Then he looked at her again with that look. She felt a heat break out of her insides, her veins aflame, and she almost felt she was blushing, almost. She fudged a smile hastily. "I don't know," she said, pursing the corner of her lips, "next to them, whole Gotham seems to me like a saint."

He smiled a little smile at her again. She felt something in her again convulsing again. "So...you felt...betrayed when he hit Gotham?" she asked, her voice cracking.

"He was like... a father to me," he admitted, "so yes, I guess, I did."

She gulped. "Did you—did you manage to forgive him?"

"If it was only me," he answered, truth weighting his words, "I would. But it wasn't. They hit a whole city, Valerie," his voice raised, his tone getting fired with something else she couldn't exactly place, "Millions would have died. Hundreds already got hurt. We lost the Narrows. The police still can't go in. The streets still have the fear drug— a ten years old child got poisoned with it just a week ago." He shook his head, "I could forgive him for burning my home down, leaving me to death, but I cannot forgive him for what he did to Gotham."

Suddenly, she understood that something else... It was guilt. He was feeling angry, betrayed, but also...guilt, just like she was... A crazy idea formed in her mind, recalling the man's death... she had read it...the train crash... Batman survived, but he did not. "Bruce," she asked, lifting her head at him, and words exited out of her even before she realized what she was doing, "Did you...did you kill him?"

He looked at her, and she saw that deep sorrow again before he turned his head away. "I didn't save him," he only said, looking outside.

A small, sad smile pulled her lips as she felt an ache inside, constringing her insides, as if the whole damn world trying to squeeze in, her hands shaking... Semantics, it was just semantics...


	19. Part V-IV

**Part**** V. IV –** "**Good people"**

* * *

A year ago, if someone told him that he was going to confess to a woman who seemed to play with men like toddlers playing in the kindergarten, leaving a mess behind, his first reaction would have been checking out the said person's vitals for any exposure to IDHL. He had no idea how the talk had evolved into this, him ending up being the one who was questioned, admitting something he couldn't even bring himself to mention to Alfred, but somehow the words hadn't come out of him with force. They had followed out naturally, like it was the easiest thing.

It wasn't. And the decorum of serenity of the silence now was only a pretense, harboring a tense storm inside. Valerie started slightly shifting on her seat, feeling the same. It was his turn now, and she knew that.

He opened his mouth, "So—" but she cut him off, reaching out for his arm.

"Look," she said, angling an inch downward to see better through the windshield, "Jason is talking to someone."

Saved by the bell, he thought, his attention turning toward the men standing at the opposite of the side of the road they had been stationed. He raised his phone and took a few quick photos of the man her father was talking with.

"Do you know him?" Bruce asked, almost frightened with another episode with her former marks. He knew he shouldn't be bother about it, he shouldn't _let_ it bother him, he knew from the _firsthand_ experience that she wasn't afraid to use her looks to coax people for her benefits, still the little boy that had been dutifully raised inside him couldn't help but frown at the idea—using sex as a tactical move.

He was aware what she had been trying with him, too, all those flirting and hitting on, sometimes unabashedly obvious, sometimes just fleeting looks, she was trying to get him—their interaction to a point that she knew how to deal with it. For a moment, he felt...pity. Her previous life had possibly rendered her unable to allocate men simply beyond partners and marks although he had no idea with what he could describe his own relation to her. Nothing seemed to fit in.

Valerie seemed to have a clear idea, however, with that look in her eyes, like she had an itch only _he_ could scratch, but Bruce was damn sure it wasn't a good idea to give into that itch, hell, he was quite adamant not to give in even an inch; she had already demonstrated what miles she would run away with it.

_I didn't save him_, echoed in his ears. Nope, definitely not a good idea.

"No," she said, frowning at the man, "Never saw him before."

Well, it was hard to believe. He entered a few commands into the tablet and ran the man in the databases. Thirty seconds later, the results poured over his screen, his eyebrows tightening. That was fast.

He squinted at the tablet. Turning her attention to him, Valerie piqued at the screen, too. "What?" she asked, as soon as her eyes fell downward.

"Yeah," Bruce said in return, "He's a cop," he stated, lifting his head, "Organized Crime Task Force."

Valerie stared back at him.

* * *

Quick as a flash, "moment" they had shared disappeared into the tides of the present. Not that she was _eager_ to fulfill her own end of their bargain nor she had any idea what to do with the secret he had just confessed to her.

_I didn't save him... _

She wasn't exactly sure what those meant, either, but she understood another thing, that Bruce Wayne was really a good person, someone like she would think only can be found in stories; unselfish and noble, forgiving, as long as the offense committed personally to him, not to Gotham. He had said he could have forgiven his mentor if only he had tried to kill him, and she knew truths were true. She knew because he had come to her aid, despite what she had tried to do to him, he had forgiven her because her atrocity had been directly mostly to him. He had taken the brunt of it, without compliant, and accepted the punishment. She could see now how he could take the blame for Harvey Dent, even though she couldn't understand. In the sense of the words, he was truly...selfless.

Perhaps Alfred was right; Bruce Wayne didn't act like _only_ a hero. He had invented himself a cross to carry then had shouldered it willingly, as if he deserved it...for what...she didn't know. When she had asked why he was doing _this _at the night he had learned about Harvey Dent, he had said he could _not._ She hadn't understood what the elusive answer meant then, not really, but now... it was different... She still didn't understand the reason, but she knew why he was doing it...guilt, self-blame...self-hatred—for what she wasn't sure, but she had recognized the sentiment, she could know it from everywhere... the way Clara's screams still echoed in her ears when it was dark, and cold, the world so small...squeezed into a little metal box.

She grimaced. Now, things became even more...fucked up. She should have known better. She should have never let him get under her skin, she should have never asked that question; understanding why he understood what _she_ felt didn't make anything easier, but only got things more complicated.

To be fair to her though, she hadn't expected him to answer her that truthfully. He protected his secret as fiercely as she did; his maneuvers as evasive as hers, his tactics as elusive as her answers. If it had been anyone else, she would have said he was becoming...attached to her, but no, she could read the signs. She would say he found her...attractive, the tension was still high and alive between them, almost a living, breathing thing, but it wasn't that kind of closeness. Intimate, yes, sensual, sometimes, but not downright sexual. She really wished it was. It would really have been much easier to deal with, but apparently Bruce Wayne liked playing the hard ball.

She shot at him a pissed look, as he frowned at the tablet in front of him; his attention entirely focused on the new riddle they had found, like the man who had just confessed possibly his one of the deepest secrets wasn't him.

Deciding following his example, she did the same; brought his attention to the organized crime task force's Inspector, and ignored the rest.

Goodness, it felt...nice...easy, simple. As frustrating as they might be, she knew at least how to deal with _them._

Desmond Hayes. She angled her head and stole a glance from the tablet's screen. The man's rugged photo looked at her back, his lips set with a grimace; an expression seemed natural on his features. Her eyes turned on the man's real figure at the street. They were still in front of the pub, like they didn't care if they were seen or not, which was certainly not-normal. You don't make your contacts in the broad daylight, in front of prying eyes. He didn't either care, or he...wanted to draw attention. Knowing Jason, she would say the second.

The only thing the man didn't look old enough. She turned to Bruce. "His partner," she asked, "He's got a partner?"

"No—" Bruce answered quickly, brushing his finger over the screen, "His last one had retired last year," he went on, then halted, his eyebrows clenching. "Charles Hollis. His partner was Charles Hollis."

She raised her eyebrow. "You know Hollis?"

He frowned deeper. "His name was on the file," he explained. She made a "right" sound. "He was the officer that was on his trail."

She barked out a laugh. "He was the officer that _was_ saving his skin," she shot back, looking at him pointedly, "Hollis was Jason's inside man in the police. He was throwing the others off Jason's track," she explained, and asked, "How do you think he has managed to remain clean this long, all investigations on him leading to dead ends?"

He gave her that look, his lips pulled with dissatisfaction. "A dirty police?"

She pursed her lips back at him. "Jason used to call him a man that knows how to make business." Her eyes turned outside, finding them again, "That son of a bitch," she muttered, "He's on fishing."

Bruce inhaled, reliving a sharp breath out. "This is his idea to gather information?" he asked, his voice turning to a rasp, as his hand waved vaguely in the air, "Broadcasting his presence to the whole city?"

She shrugged, "So he would see who would wear the cap."

His face turned sterner. "He threw his cast out, and now waiting to see who would catch the bait," he rasped, staring at the men outside.

"Someone would," she said in return, "if he has an itch."

"This is...dangerous."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, like, you wouldn't do anything like that," she shot back, the paused before she added, "If the mountain doesn't come to Muhammed..."

He shook his head. "That's an unnecessary risk," he retorted, his voice adamant, "I don't like it."

She gave him a half smile. "Now, you know how _I_ feel."

* * *

The Belfast Memorial Hospital was having a calm afternoon, no way close to the rush of yesterday's Monday. Taken a cover at the angle that had a clear view of the main entrances of the E.R, they had been watching the public hospital for three hours. After leaving Jason with his buddy, they had come to Rory, tracking him around the clock like Bruce had stated yesterday. Valerie was already bored beyond the reason. Bored and hungry, and tensed, her whole body felt like it was about to snap. God, this was the worst stakeout she had ever participated, and it was nowhere close to done. Rory's shift was about to finish, and who knew what kind of pit stops they were going to have to make until Rory finally called it a night and went to home. She passed the last night in her mind. Apart from the fight with Ronnie's minions, there was nothing to suggest the dutiful janitor was what they had been suspecting him to be. His and his friends seemed like boys that had rounded up to protect their neighborhood than a secret cell that was planning an attack that would turn into the city into the chaos, once more, with a good possibility of hurting innocents. The young man she had seen in the dossier was a man of desperation, a misfit, a dissident, and in a way Rory was that man, but her eyes weren't seeing any cruelty. She knew how it felt not belonging to anywhere, but how that kind displacement would get you to do what he did, fighting, protecting the streets, for the good of the people?

Her eyes skipped to Bruce, a realization lightening in her mind. Their Rory seemed much like to the man she was sitting next, and she was kinda upset not to see it earlier. She wondered if Bruce had.

Leaning forward, she held the handle under her seat and pushed the mechanism to lounge over the seat. God, she had missed Lamborghini. "You know, it doesn't make sense," she commented under her breath, stretching her legs, "We've been following him since yesterday, but he doesn't fit to the bill."

Bruce craned his neck and gave her a look. "Illegal organizations once they went underground work in secret," he cited placidly in answer, "Their all integrity is to blend in until the time has come."

She shook her head. "Well, I don't know," she said, "If his aim is not to get uncovered, what was that fight yesterday?" she asked.

He turned his head away. "Some things cannot be helped."

She shrugged, her lips pursing, "I don't know. He really doesn't look like to me as someone who would hurt innocents."

His eyes still fixed ahead, he slowly muttered, "Sometimes you live long enough to see yourself become the villain."

Her eyebrow rose, as his expression closed off, as soon as the words left his mouth, as if he had understood what he had uttered. Her eyes darted at him, but she didn't know what to say. She wasn't even sure if she wanted to say anything at all. She wished he had stopped saying things like this, things that were doing funny things in her chest, leaving her short on the breath, her lungs squeezed.

Live long enough to see yourself become the villain... then she realized she had missed another thing, once again, something pivotal with Bruce Wayne. He didn't save his mentor, but he had saved _the other_, even after all the things the maniac clown had done to him _and_ to Gotham, he had saved the Joker.

Releasing a silent breath, she slightly shook her head. Just when she thought she had understood a part of him, in a small way, she felt she had turned to the beginning once again. It was no use. She could never figure out this man. So like she always did, she decided to dwell on the things she would.

She turned her away, and looked at the hospital. "We need to talk to Jason," she stated with a cool voice, steering the topic to the safe waters. "Rory trusts him, but why?" she asked, and her eyebrows tightened, "and Jason is dragging his feet to make a contact."

He followed her example. "Alfred's file mentions that Rory participated in a few bank robberies five years ago," he said, his voice rough, a tone above a whisper but clear, "Do you know anything about it?" he questioned.

She shook her head. "No, I wasn't around here then."

Another sudden silence ensued after her answer. Then he slowly said, "Sean doesn't know...you're—" He looked at her, "—supposed to be dead."

Running her eyes away, she faked a shrug. "Wouldn't broadcast it, would I?"

His eyes followed, and captured hers. "Your death certificate was citing an accident in Londonderry."

She stared at him, her eyes widening. "You saw my death certificate?!" He gave her another look. She huffed. "I went to Derry afterward," she explained vaguely, but also giving him an opening to collect his payment, "Wanted to be away for a while."

He took it, of course. His eyes turning darker, he opened his mouth, but before he could say a word, the car's back door opened, and her father slipped inside. Their heads snapped at him at the same time, as if they were caught—doing something... she didn't know. Jason gave them a look, too, recognizing the nervous gesture, and smirked. "Interrupting something?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

She pulled her lips out back at him. "No..." she said, her voice silky with fake sweetness, "We were just trying to understand why Rory trusts you..." she smiled further, "You must understand our confusion... It's hard to comprehend why anyone would do _that_."

Jason smiled back at her. "Kiddo, you're really vindictive, you know that?" he shot back, "It's hard to comprehend from who you took _that_—" He paused for a second, "Cathleen!" he almost exclaimed, "That witch of a woman... she infected you."

She shook her head. Sometimes she didn't know why she even tried. "Rory, _father,_" she seethed.

"Do you remember my...friend in the organized crime task force?" Jason asked back. Her eyes skipped at Bruce and they shared a quick glance.

"Yeah," she said back, turning her attention back at Jason. "Chuck Hollis. What about him?" she asked, "I thought he was retired."

Jason nodded. "Yes, last year. Turned to London," he said, "Last time I heard he was working in Art Loss Register."

"And?" Valerie prompted, rising her eyebrow, waiting for his point.

Jason shrugged at ease. "And, seven years ago," he said, and her eyebrows furrowed, too, "When you were trying—your something different—" his eyes skid to Bruce for a moment, her frown deepened. She was going to kill him! One of these days, she was going to kill him. "Rory got involved with a gang..." he started explaining, "They were robbing jewelry stores... He wasn't doing much of anything, he was the lookout, watching for the police. One day they got caught after their big job. The same story; power struggles inside, the boys got greedy," he said, shrugging.

"I called Chuck," he continued. "I knew Rory since he was a little kid. Chuck pulled a few strings, disappeared a few evidence...you know the usual stuff—" he muttered under his breath. She let out a sigh. "Fixed him a quick penance, away from the trouble." An idea, an idea came to her mind, but she didn't ask, she didn't want to ask, but she couldn't help her mind speculate...what he had done for Rory seemed like the exact thing he had done for her... and Jason didn't do sentimental...

He might have recognized her expression, because a second later, he laughed, looking at her. "Kiddo, I only have one child—" He paused, "As far as I know."

Her hands pulling into fists, she glared at him, but not dignified the words with an answer. "So what did you two figure out?" Jason asked, looking at them.

They shared another quick glance before she let out a sigh. She didn't want to give away about what they had discovered the last, there was still time for that, but for Ronnie...well, she reasoned he needed to know. "Well, you remember the trio Rory was fighting last night?" she asked.

His eyes narrowing, Jason nodded, "Yeah."

"They're Ronnie's minions."

His eyebrows raised above his hairline. "Ronnie..." he asked, "as in...Ronald Looney...?" he asked, looking at her, "The man he swore to kill you when he sees you the next?"

She clicked her tongue. "Right that one."

Jason exhaled softly, "Oh boy."

She looked at him back. "It's the time," she declared, "We need to finish this." Her eyes turned sterner. "You need to talk to Rory."

* * *

"God, I can't believe you're here, old man," she heard Rory declared an hour later, his voice cracking with static over the radio, a sound of toasting glasses echoing inside her ear along with it. Somehow, it was going well. Upon seeing Jason, the younger man had been expectedly skeptic, but as the time passed, he had become...friendlier. "People don't come back easily now, a lot of them already have moved on..." he continued, a sadness entering into the cracks of his voice.

"Well, you know what they say," Jason said back, "You always come back home."

"It's good to be home," Rory said softly, as she turned her eyes away. Apparently she was the only one who didn't feel the happy homecoming feelings. If she had her own way, she would have never returned here, never. "Despite everything," he added, voice now a mere mutter.

It was a good opening, and Jason didn't waste it. "I thought things are getting better," he said, "The Assembly reopened last year," he continued, "That's an improvement."

From the radio, she heard ruffles as if someone was shaking head, "_That's_ a comprise," Rory opposed, a fierceness heating his tone. She turned and shared a look with Bruce. His expression was guarded, weighting the moment, but also prepared. "They gave their full support PSNI," Rory spat the last word like an insult, "They signed St. Andrews Agreement...just that so they could place their worthy arses on the leather seats back again."

Ah...now they were coming somewhere. She looked at Bruce again. "He's not happy," he stated.

She shrugged. "A lot of people aren't happy after last year," she said, "Feel betrayed. Cathleen used to call all of them Judases."

Again, a brief silence followed after her words, as Bruce studied her, that look all over his face. She cursed inwardly. She had just jumped into the trap willingly. "Ah, politicians always are the same," Jason commented with a laugh, "Can't expect anything else from them."

Bruce lowered the radio, Jason's voice fading into the silence stretching between them. "Who's Cathleen?" he asked softly.

She ran her eyes away, but answered as she understood this time there was no where she would run, and they had made a bargain. It was his time to collect. "A Sisters of Mercy," she said, "she used to run the orphanage I born."

"Nothing stays the same," Jason voice echoed from the distant. The words weren't uttered for her, but still it felt the same, "Life goes on. You should too."

She closed her eyes, exhaling shakily, and rested her head back. _You can't hate him forever..._

She thought she could, she was certain she would... but... "Seven years ago," she started suddenly, "I was trying something..." the words trailed off, her mind coming to a stop. What the hell she had been trying really? She had been just playing house.

"Something—different?" The question echoed in the car. She could feel his eyes on her even with her closed eyes, intruding and probing ever, but this time there was another gentleness in his tone, something she seldom heard from him, in fact, the only time she had heard it had been when he had told her they didn't need to find her father if she wasn't comfortable with it...pity in his eyes...

Her eyes snapped open, and she looked at him, searching for any sign of pity, but there was none. There was something close to compassion, soft and kind, and somehow it didn't boil her blood, painting the world red. It was funny but she knew he had understood, and even funnier was that she had found herself not minding it, not even caring. It felt...oddly good. "You ever felt something wasn't right with your life?" she asked, "and wished things could be—different."

Still looking at her in silence, he nodded. She guessed he would. No sane person got lost for years, declared himself death for no reason. Perhaps she had been right. He had really understood. "Cathleen had just passed away..." she explained, "I gone to see her...you know...for the last time... and she looked at me that way..." She shook her head. "It's hard to explain."

"Was it bad?" he suddenly asked. She looked at him, almost confused. "Her..." he clarified, "She was bad?"

She shrugged. "Could be worse, I guess," she answered, with the only truth she could find. "You hear stuff all the time. No one abused me or anything. I was just..." She shook her head again, trying to find a suitable word, then she chose to go with the first thing that had come to her mind, "...alone," she finished.

Then there was again silence. She softly laughed. "Don't get me wrong," she said, "Most of times, it was a blessing. Cathleen..." She let out a small sigh, "she was a stern woman, living a century or so back. She was fair in her own way, but her world view wasn't exactly... corresponding with the times we live in—" She pursed her lips, and added, "especially for someone like me."

He frowned, the habitual crease between his eyebrows deepening. "What do you mean?" he asked.

She laughed again. "She was a good Catholic, Bruce, used to say my mother was like a daughter to her," she explained, "and I'm born out of wedlock..." She shrugged. "She had thought mother would have been a nun like herself, to quote her, not open her legs wide to the first man who threw at her a smile." Her eyes finding his, she smiled, bitter with irony, "She must have felt _betrayed_."

"That's not right," he muttered.

She shrugged. "Perhaps," she said, "but in any case, I'm...grateful to her," she continued, the same bitter irony edging her voice further, "I wouldn't have been here now if it wasn't her."

His crease deepened more, his eyebrows clenched tighter. It was almost cute. She laughed again. "Come on, Bruce," she said, irony turning to a dry humor, cutting, "A girl who is about to be a nun getting knocked up, and the father isn't even in the country...do the math."

"Your mother—" he rasped, "Your mother wanted to—"

She cut him off, "Cathleen didn't let her," she said. "She thought one _sin_ is already enough. Another one should not be committed under her roof."

"Valerie—" Bruce said, but she cut him off again.

"I don't blame her, Bruce," she said, "Mother tried to do what she had to." Her words more than anything were matter of fact. They hurt but it didn't change anything; it was the truth. She didn't blame her mother, and how she could have, after what she had done herself, not having enough justifications like her, either? No, her mother was trying to keep her away from a life that she knew only would bring her pain... She was glad to be alive, but she understood her mother.

Bruce, on the other hand, didn't seem like he did. He shook his head, defiantly, his eyes lightened with a fire she seldom saw. "It's not right," he said, shaking his head.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "And what's right, Bruce Wayne," she asked, her voice turning into a hiss, "bringing someone like _me _in the world with their conditions?" She shook her head. "Right and wrong most of times are opinions, they differ from one person to another. But this—" She waved her hand around, "—is reality. It's the same for everyone."

"And every action has consequences," he encountered, "You can't ignore your responsibility."

"Responsibility?" she asked back, her eyes suddenly pricking, the history weighting down on her, things she would have never let herself sway into, but Bruce Wayne had a way to get under her skin. "There is only responsibility in this life, Bruce, and it is called _living_," she rasped, fiercely blinking to keep her tears at bay. "My mother died giving me birth because she went to labor prematurely, and do you know why that happened?" She asked, raising her eyebrow, "Because someone called her a _whore..._a mother of a bastard, and do you know how _I_ know that?" she asked further, but her voice felt like it belonged to another, "Because my childhood passed listening to that story... _That's what happens when you be a bad girl..._" she spat, the words itching, her breath an inch away from him, "So...don't sit on your high horse there, and judge her for what she felt she had to, but they didn't let her to do it."

She exhaled, releasing a deep breath, and rested back on her seat. The silent murmur of Jason and Rory were still in her ears, but she couldn't gather their meanings to save her life. She cursed at herself again silently. She really shouldn't let him do this to her, getting under skin, forcing her to share the past. There was nothing, nothing good scratching the old memories, she had always known that. That path had no way.

Another moment passed in the silence, the murmurs still their backgrounds then Bruce said, slowly, as if weighting the words on his tongue. "I'm sorry."

She shrugged, the fire in her slowly quenching, leaving its place to cold ashes. "A wrong deed can't be straightened out with another one, Bruce," she said, her voice now even, and matter of fact once again, "It only worsens it. The truth is that..." she paused, her eyes turning away, "some people are not meant to be parents."

* * *

Her attention fixed at outside, Valerie didn't talk further, and Bruce absorbed the rejecting gesture, and let her be to gather herself back. He was well aware how her fingers were tightened around the car's handle. If they had been in the motel after the episode they had just went through, she would have already tailed back to the bathroom.

Perhaps he was making a mistake. The more they shared, the more screwed up their relationship had become, every talk they had turning into a mess. Not that he was surprised. All things related to her had an annoying tendency to turn to a mess.

The worst part of it, deep down he couldn't find in himself opposite her, even when he knew she was wrong. Her words were true, he believed them. Her mother might truly have lived through that hell, and that kind of atrocity was making his blood boil, his teeth bare at each other but still... It was her responsibility. Sometimes he wanted to smash her father to the ground for leaving her stranded, but she was right again in that part; some people were not meant to be parents. Her mother was meant to be a nun, and her father possibly could be anything but a father, and in one moment, one faithful moment, their life was ruined.

As soon as the thought appeared in his mind, he crashed it down. That was how she felt, he wondered, blaming her own _existence_ for ruining her parents' life? _A child is a miracle, not a burden_, he remembered his father saying. _And all life is sacred_, his gentle voice echoed in his mind.

_Your father should be ashamed of you..._

Rachel's words still stung, after all these years, but his father's words had become his only rule. He wouldn't play the hand of justice and the judge at the same time, he couldn't play the God. He had done once, had submitted to his darkness, but even one time had been enough. He could be anything; an abhorred fallen hero, a scorned playboy, a dummy business man, a dark savior, but he couldn't be _that man_. He couldn't decide who should live, who should die. He had failed. Perhaps he was the man Ducard had thought of him be. He hadn't killed his once mentor, yes, but in the heart of things, it made little difference. He hadn't saved him either.

"So what are you doing nowadays?" Jason's voice asked in his ear, dissolving his thoughts. His lips setting in a grimace, Bruce decided to focus on the present, the call of his mask getting more adamant in his mind. When the cowl was on, the world was really a much easier place, the sides definite. He knew with a perfect clarity what he was, what he wasn't. When the mask was on, he was simply Batman, nothing more, and nothing less.

"Working in a hospital," the younger man answered, an obvious shrug in his voice, then a second later a smirk tinted it, "cleaning the grounds."

With the last worlds, Valerie finally decided again to acknowledge his present. She turned to him, and gave him a look, a small half smile appearing over her lips. "Well, wasn't that a word play?" she asked, her words clear, as anonymous as ever.

They hadn't before. For the first time he had known her, there had been a ghost of accent in them the last time she had spoken, a trace of her Irish origins. She didn't look like she was aware of the slip, but after what she had said he hadn't expected her to be. Any other woman would have probably had a break down by now; any other woman would have already had a couple of breakdowns by now.

Despite the messiness, Bruce decided it was a good thing. She wasn't as cold-hearted as she pretended, in fact, all things considered, he would even call her...sentimental. "So you're playing nice?" Jason asked, his voice coming closer, "No trouble?"

"No, I left it all behind, it wasn't my thing," Rory answered then a hint of suspicion lowered his tone, "Why do you ask?"

"Nothing, you know me, just listening around..." Jason said airily.

A brief silence, then Rory asked, suspicion this time clear in his voice, "And what do you hear, old man?"

But there was no hesitance in Jason's answer; "Things. An event... Something's happening," he said, "Your name is around."

Valerie looked at him, her eyes widening. "What the hell—" she said, touching her ear, "Jason—" she called in, "_what_ are you doing?" she asked to her father.

"What?" Rory asked the same thing she had, "I can't believe this," he said, "This is why you're here?" There was again silence, and the younger man fired, "You want what everyone else does, too..." Bruce looked at Valerie. In answer, she shook her head, shrugging... "I told you already, told y'all. I—"

Jason cut him off. "I'm here because I'm worried," he said, "I don't know why but you're in the radar."

"What they say?" Rory hissed out.

"Nothing specific," Jason answered, "But I can see it..." he said, "This... this won't last forever." He didn't clarify what he meant by "this" but Bruce had already understood the meaning. The truce...the pretense of order; the peace time...it wasn't going to last, like Gotham, Belfast was a steaming cauldron that had reached to its boiling point, and soon what was inside was going to spill.

"Of course, it isn't," Rory said back, the words heated much like his city, "Don't you see it? They might pretend otherwise, but they hate it as much as we do..." He paused for a second, before concluding, "Sometimes it feels like we're doomed to do this forever."

Something hit him in the stomach, the words ringing in his mind. Valerie was right. Rory wasn't fitting into the bill. He was a good person, who had made some bad decisions, but he couldn't do it. He ripped off the wireless from his ear, and turned to Valerie. "You were right," he said, directly looking at her eyes, "Rory can't do this."

She raised her eyebrow, "Meaning?"

"Someone is framing him."

* * *

_Writing this chapter was hard, because I'm delving into more controversial stuff, and it also causes a great conflict between Bruce and Valerie as they grow shockingly closer. _

_In my mind, "all life is sacred" can explain Bruce's unwillingness to kill the Joker at the second movie, whereas he didn't save Ra's at the first. I've always found this very...speculative. And Thomas Wayne seems like to me the kind of guy would say to his son, "all life is sacred."_


	20. Part VI-I

**PART VI**

**Part VI. I – "The Hero"**

* * *

As it was norm with them, a silence followed after his statement, Valerie staring at him, the light green eyes wide, but this time for different reasons. They were hawkishly skeptical, processing what she had heard fast, he could even see the wheels turning in her mind rapidly. "Someone is framing him?" she repeated at last, slowly as if to buy herself time, but also making certain every word was uttered with a certainty so there wouldn't be any misunderstandings.

Bruce simply nodded. "May I ask why?" she asked further, raising her eyebrow.

He turned to her, and looked at her back. "It was your idea, Valerie," he pointed out. It was. She had been the first one who had noticed it, Bruce thought, the truth souring his fool mood further, his stomach turning to acid. He should have done, too. And if he would have done, hadn't he been occupied with her and with the past this much. Inwardly, he let out a frustrated sigh.

_Always mind your surroundings_, echoed in his mind.

Ducard's lesson had almost cost him of his life, he could still feel the cold deep in his bones, but they had been also scalded down to his marrows with the bite of the frost. His eyes turned to the streets, looking at gathering storm outside, as Valerie shook her head.

"No, I was merely making an observation," she rejected, "not suggesting a conspiracy."

His attention turned back to her. For a moment, he wondered why she was opposing the idea, as if she didn't want it to happen, as if...he wasn't sure. It disturbed her, things had gotten out of their control, yes, but things had gotten out of their control long before. He thought of Gotham, and night, and the weight of his armor, and the heat inside it... the call of night was like a siren's song in his mind. He turned his mind away, and focused himself on the grey streets, on the grey sky that was harvesting a downpour inside. Soon, it was going to start, he knew, he would. "Can you find any other explanation that would reveal the whole mystery here?" he inquired, his eyes finding hers.

Her lips flattening into a grimace, she stopped fighting whatever it was she had been fighting with, and let out a contained sigh. "So—" she breathed out, "who is it?"

He shrugged, his eyes darting to the pub, waiting the men leave the locale, "I don't know. At this point, both sides are a safe bet."

"Both sides?" she mirrored his words into a question, her eyebrow rising again.

He nodded. "Rory was right. This truce isn't going to last forever." It hardly ever did. He wondered how long Dent Act would keep his streets clean, how long it would take before things turned to what it always had been, and people started realizing what it was they had traded off for their safety. Dent Act...much like his sonar, the newly enacted public law was dangerous, he always knew. He had agreed with Lucius to take down the sonar after they had finished, because he knew the older man had been right. No man should have given that much power.

"The streets are harvesting a fire storm, both sides are equally unhappy, and the only thing they need is someone to ignite it," he said, his tone turning rough with possibilities, "Then they would catch fire."

She closed her eyes, with another deep sigh, as if she was seeing the possibilities, too and rested her head back. "Okay," she huffed the word out, her eyes still closed, then spoke in one rushed breath, "Mark these words, Mr. Wayne, because you are _not_ going to hear them again, but I should have listened to you—" she paused, "and let you find a doctor."

A small smile pulled out his lips. All things considered, perhaps that was what he liked about her the most, the way she admitted the defeat, with a certain tact and grace, barely blinking an eye. Then her face shifted, the lines along her mouth flattening into that tight grimace that appeared over her features whenever she decided something she didn't like. His smile faded, as she opened her eyes. "So—can you?" she inquired, her expression now deadly serious, voice stern, "Can you find one?"

His smile vanished off completely, as he understood what was that she had been fighting off. "Do you want to leave?" he asked slowly, his eyes narrowing.

She ran her eyes away, shaking her head. "We're in a situation we can't even understand," she told him, her voice heating, "This is more than what we bargained for—" She turned back to him. Motionlessly, he looked at her. She shook her head. "If we don't get out now, it'd only get worse."

"And Rory?"

"What about him?" she asked back.

His voice rose, as he stared at her as if seeing her the first time, and perhaps in a way he was. "Someone is framing him!" he rasped out, "He needs help."

"You don't even know him!"

"That doesn't make a difference," he snapped, "When someone needs help, I help them—" His eyes captured hers, unforgiving, "You should know that better than anyone, _Ms. Reese._"

She flinched back as if he had slapped her, looking at him with an angered look, but also with hurt. The next moment, she shook her head, and reached to the door's handle. Before she pulled it open, Bruce locked the doors. He had had enough.

Her head whisked at him, her eyes widening, the light green turning darker, her mouth almost ajar, but then, with a hiss, she turned aside, and tried to open the mechanism manually. He launched fast at her and caught her hand tightly above the door.

"_What are you doing?_" she exclaimed, trying to pull her hand off, pushing him with the other, "Let me go, you moron!"

He didn't. "Tell me something, Valerie," He turned her toward him, trapping her between the door and his body, "Why did you stay in Gotham after the Joker made his threat? Why didn't you leave? Why did you show up at Engels' show?" he asked in a single breath, and continued, not even giving her a second to collect herself, his right hand still gripping her fingers tightly. Her resistance ceased, too, and motionlessly, she started looking at him, stupefied. "You told me you did it because _I_ wasn't doing anything," he rasped out, his breath an inch away from her, "and you wanted to help. Or was that also a lie?" he asked relentlessly.

The last word broke her stupor. Her hands on his chest, she pushed him off with all of her might. "What's the difference?" she yelled at his face, "I did it, and look at my life now!" She shook her head at him. "Why I would do the same mistake again, Bruce, why?"

"Because if someone doesn't interfere," he yelled back, he had had _really_ enough, enough of all of this...why she couldn't see it... "something bad is gonna happen to him."

"And I would care _WHY_?" she shouted, rising her hands, "Bad things happen to people all the time, it's life." She made another attempted to open the door, but he caught her again. She wouldn't have meant it, he knew she didn't. She cared... She had called him.

"Valerie—" he started, but stopped as soon as his eyes caught the figure that was watching them outside the car, a frown over his eyebrows. Valerie noticed his hesitance, too, and followed his eyes, then frowned back at her father.

As he pulled back, she finally opened the door, and left the car. Bruce stepped down, too. "What's happening here, kiddo?" the older man asked, his eyes moving between them.

"Nothing," Valerie snapped back, "What's happened _there_?" and asked, pointing the pub with her head, "What was that?"

"I cut the chase," Jason answered, shrugging, then turned to him. "He's innocent...well, on this case, at least," he amended, "someone must be framing him." Valerie scoffed heavily, throwing her hands in the air.

Her father's eyes skipped at her. "What's wrong with you?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

Her eyes narrowed, too. "What's wrong with _me?_" she seethed out then barked out a laugh, close to hysterical, "_with_ _me_?"

As her eyes widened, a look he had never seen appearing over her face, Bruce realized she had had enough _too_. Quickly he walked to her. "Valerie—" he started again, gentling his rasping voice into a civilized timbre, but his words interrupted again, this time by her.

"No," she whispered roughly, her eyes fixed ahead of him.

He craned his head, and saw that Rory had exited out of the pub, looking at the street as the same time a black van approached him at the top speed from the north, its plate number darkened. The younger man noticed the van as he placed a cigarette in his lips, and recognized the trouble as quickly as he did.

Bruce turned to Valerie. "Go back to the car," he ordered with a rasp.

He turned back, but her hand clawed at his fore arm. Halting in his steps, he looked at her then pulled back his arm. "It's okay," he said, "start the motor." He shifted a look at Jason, turning away, "Come with me. We're getting him in."

He crossed the street as the same time the black van parked along the curb, men in balaclavas spilling out of it. With the corner of his eyes, she saw Valerie getting in the car, preparing their quick getaway. At least, she had listened this time, understanding that they would probably need a fast driver. He shot a look at the older man next to him, as the man narrowed his eyes. "This's not good," Jason murmured, as a man with P90 stepped down.

Taking a hold of Jason, Bruce quickly dove, taking the cover behind a car. He made a hand gesture, directing the man to stay still. The man titled eyes narrowed further. Bruce decided it made little difference now. Barely making a move, he rose from the car, and approached to the men, assessing the situation.

Rory was surrounded by three men, the one with P90 taking the head. Bruce gazed at the personal defense weapon. It was a standard military issue, 5.7×28mm cartridge, with picatinny rail, something that should not be in the possession of a street gang. Something was amiss. These men weren't the same group from the last night. Their whole body structure and body language spoke differently. He wasn't sure who they were, but as of the moment it hardly mattered.

At the sidewalk, Rory was looking at them, his eyes widened, his back on the pub's door. Then with a spring, the younger man took a step backward, and fell back into the pub. As the man followed him, Bruce took a turn to left, Jason on his tail, and circled the block outside to the back exit. He touched at his ear, "Valerie," he called in, "Come to the back door."

"Copy that," Valerie confirmed, as he heard tires stretching, then ordered back at him after a brief hesitance, "Ask Jason if he has a gun."

His face soured. She was already aware of his "no gun" policy, as he had made it to her clear with "no-drinking" policy, but judging by the situation, this time it seemed he was going to have to make an exception. Without his armor, the chances of standing against a full automatic machine gun were below zero. While running, he shifted his eyes to the corner, and caught a glimpse of the older man, his hand holding a Beretta.

They took a cover at the street that opened up to the back door of the pub as Rory ushered out of it. "Aim for the hands and kneecaps," he ordered, his eyes falling to 19mm gun, "Take the P90 at first."

As Valerie parked at their left side, he saw men appearing from the other side of the street. Rory had already stared hoisting himself up the fire ladder. He passed the structure in his mind. Before they had taken the cover in front of the locale, they had circled it, to get their bearings, and that information had become vital now. "Valerie," he called in her again, remembering the maintenance platform lift he had seen at the other side of the building, "Turn around the block," he instructed. Her father's eyes sharpened with something that Bruce wasn't sure if he liked it. He was aware how things must be looking to the older man, but he couldn't stand by and watch an innocent person die without doing anything. He simply could not. He gave a last look at Jason, before he stepped out, "Cover me."

Closing his mind everything, he engaged. The men were surprised seeing him at first, but they quickly recovered. The man with machine gun held it up, the barrel directed at him, but before he went with the first around, he was shot from his hand, then his kneecap. With a howl, the man stumbled down, blood spurting out of him, coloring the grey pavement red. Like he expected, Jason proved himself exactly the man he had assessed him to be; a former guerilla, who could spot and shoot even a bird in the sky with a perfect projectile. Both shots were meticulous, just Bruce had instructed, at the joints that had the man incapacitated for further fight.

Without wasting any time, Bruce turned his attention to the man who pointed a Glock at him. He held the wrist reaching out to him to disarm but the man's other arm raised up in self-defense, wrapping around his throat. With his free arm, Bruce grabbed the man around his neck, as they fought for dominance. It had been a while he had made this dance, this openly, this vulnerably, the protection of his armor and cowl getting remarkably clear in his mind as the hand tightened around his windpipe mercilessly.

In a way, Batman had weakened Bruce Wayne.

_Never. _

He crushed the thought, as his hands crushed both wrists, an animalistic growl on the tip of his tongue. He was opening of a can of worms, he was aware, but as of the moment, it didn't matter, either. The only thing was mattering right now to take Rory out of this in one piece.

Bruce tackled down the man. His opponent countered the move, bringing both of them on the ground, using the momentum. Flipping back, Bruce caught the man's neck with his crisscrossed legs, and squeezed, as reaching to the gun the man had dropped down. He grabbed it, tightening his inner things further around the neck, and shot the kneecap of the last attacker that was approaching. His own attacker's rough grunts reached to his ear, as he straightened, catching the man's flying arms. The next moment, he was out.

Releasing a labored breath, adrenaline pumping in his veins, Bruce turned to Rory, as the man stared at him with widened eyes. When Bruce took a step forward, he took one back. Bruce pointed at the fire ladder. "Quick," he ordered, taking a hold of the man's upper arm, "We need to move before reinforcement arrives." Something was telling him they were about to. These men...he was right about his first assessment. Much like he had expected, they were highly trained, not simple street thugs.

His eyes widening more, Rory slipped out of his grip and took another step back. "Move out?" he asked, his eyes darting around in a vain hope to understand the situation, "I don't even know you."

He looked back at him straight in the eyes, a look most of times he only directed at people behind the cowl. "I'm the one not holding at you a P90, Rory," he told him, his voice turning into the distinctive rasp on its account, "You're in trouble," he stated, "and you have exactly two seconds to decide which side—" he pointed the men on the ground, "you're going to choose."

He had hoped the words would have moved him, but stationed where he was, Rory continued to look at him baffled. Releasing a frustrated breath, Bruce caught the man again. The younger man made an attempt to fight back, but Jason's voice stopped his resistance. "He's fine," Jason stated, taking Rory's arm from him, and led him to the fire ladder, "Come one, we need to move."

"Jason?" Rory asked, but his feet had started moving. Bruce followed, his eyes surveying around to spot any trouble, "What are you doing here?"

Jason flashed at him a cocky smirk, "Having a drink with an old friend?"

"Valerie—" Bruce called in at the same time, "Everything is clear?"

"For now," she answered.

Upon the roof, he brought them at the other side of building. As he had expected, the open-air cage lift was there, dutifully waiting for them. On the lift, he pulled the leverage to move the mechanism, and they started having a free style drop toward the ground, at the top speed. Rory held the barriers tightly, as Bruce studied the street from his vantage point. The white Honda was parked a hundred feet, its motor running as he had instructed, Valerie behind the wheel, again as he had instructed, her face set, her eyes turned to that darker shade of green.

For a reason, the way she looked reminded him the time she had showed up in his room. There was the same predatoriness in her darkened eyes, the same reserve that suggested she could _anything_. The lift touched the pavement with a loud thud, and he quickly disposed them, as the same time another van appeared at their six o'clock.

Jason brought out his gun, already aiming, and already late. Another man in balaclava hit him, sending him down to pavement. As Bruce jumped over the railings, the man held Rory, as another put a black bag over his head, and then a white blur passed by.

Rory threw himself down on the ground, as Valerie hit his attackers with the front side of the car. His blood boiling, he threw at her a glare, she wasn't supposed to get involved, but she was already out of the car, too. Before she walked around the car, the men drew back from the ground, and held again Rory, their steps halting.

Bruce charged toward them, but two other men caught him before he moved, his arms twisted behind his back. The third man in front of him punched him under his ribcage, his fingers armored with brass knuckles. For a second or so, as the impact darkened his vision, it also cut short the breath in his lungs. He doubled in two, as the man threw another one at his stomach. Before the third blew out at his chin, he launched forward, toward the attacker, bringing his holders too. His momentum broken, the man's punch beat the air instead of him.

He broke himself free, and turned to Rory. Two men were stuffing him inside the van. He moved but then with the corner of his eyes, he caught something, something that had his steps halt dead. Valerie was running toward Rory, her face set with sternness, her eyes darkest green, but blind to the man was coming at her from her right side.

The man caught her as Rory dragged his feet with all of his force, his fingers gripping the van's doors, blood running over his fingertips. Throwing a quick glance at Jason, he saw the older man was out with the blow he had gotten. His eyes went between Rory and Valerie's fighting figure, as the man hit her at the stomach with brass knuckles, too.

With a painful scream, she dropped on her knees, her hair wrapped around the man's hand, lifting her head up, his free hand fisted... Bruce didn't hesitate any longer. He dashed toward them, and knocked out the man on the ground, jumping on him, with a flying kick. Valerie first arched backward, as the man swirled in the air, then the grip on her hair loosened, she dropped on all her fours, her eyes watered red with pain. Her attacker flipped back, and landed on his legs then sprinted at him, his torso bend down, his hands tightened at his sides, something glinting...

He noticed it too late. With the impact, he felt a scorching pain in his side, his knee protesting the heavy fight without his bracelet. The man, rolling over him, jumped back on his feet, and rushed toward the van. His hand grabbing the knife in his stomach, his fingers slick and wet with his own blood, his eyes leveled up the van's tires, he watched it go, taking Rory away.

Another person he had failed to protect.


	21. Part VI-II

**Part VI. II – "Telling Scars"**

* * *

Pain, the whole world was in pain. On her knees and hands, Valerie swallowed a helpless cry inside her throat, clutching at her right side where the man had hit her. A feet away from her, she could see Bruce fighting with her attackers as another two pushed Rory inside the van.

Lifting her neck, she looked for her father, only to see him sprawled out on the ground. For a second, her breath caught inside her chest again, but this time not for the hot pain. Then she noticed the movement his chest. She let out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding, the tightness in her own chest dissolving. Bracing herself for the pain, she tried to straighten up, Rory... despite what she had told Bruce, she couldn't let them take him away. Before it had been just a possibility, something could have happened, but now it was different. It was reality, and she couldn't watch it standing aside... Bruce's words echoed in her mind... _or was it also a lie?_

The words had stung, more than she would admit, more than she thought they would have, but they did, and she didn't like it. She pulled herself on the trembling legs, even though she wasn't sure what she could do. These men...they were trained, much, much better than her. Against them, she didn't have a chance. Bruce, despite all of his training, could barely hold himself up without the help of his armor and gadgets, while trying to protect a civilian. Clutching at her side, she turned to him, and saw him... and for a split of second her mind drew blank...seeing him fighting with her attacker, fighting like _that_, each move calibrated, his defenses as effective as his attacks. She had seen him fighting before in the locale in Egypt, but that had been nothing but a brawl, but this...this was different. The thoughts started spinning in her mind, but she shut them off; it wasn't time now for gawking at the _reality_ that Bruce Wayne was the Batman.

Then she noticed it. Her former attacker was charging at him again, under moonlight there was a glinting.

Her heart rose to her throat, as she rushed toward, but it was already too late. She skid to a halt on her knees in front of him, suddenly her own pain diminishing, and clutched the knife in his stomach.

"Bruce—" she gasped, her hands wetting with warm blood, "Bruce—!" Pressing her hand on the edge of the wound, she tried to get his attention, but it was focused upward. Craning her neck up, she followed his gaze, and saw that he was looking at the van driving away.

"Bruce—" she called again, and his eyes finally turned to her.

"I'm fine—" he muttered roughly, trying to stand up. Bending forward, she caught him at his back, her arm wrapping across his back, rounded around his shoulders. "We need to move," he rasped, "The police..." he trailed off.

She nodded, her eyes tilting up to spot the security cameras. They needed to deal with them. Soon this place was going to swarm with cops, and before the police retrieved the footage, they would need to erase them. If their faces were spotted on the cameras...she shook her head defiantly at the thought. There was still the matter with the attackers, they had seen both of them, but they would think that bridge when they were going to cross it. Her first priority was to get Bruce to the medical attention he needed. The wound didn't look like deep, she estimated the blade of the knife about three inches, but it was needed to be removed safely.

Lifting her head up, she looked at her father. "Jason—" she called, but there was no response. She tried another time, this time higher, "Jason!" Still no response... Her heart skipped a beat again—"Father!" she shouted, standing up, and ran to his side.

She put her fingers over his jugular vein, and felt a rhythmic beating under her skin. She let out a disheveled breath, hitting his cheeks. "Jason—hey—hey, wake up," she called again, catching with the corner of his eyes Bruce standing up, staggering on his steps to find his balance—"Bruce, for god's sake—" she cried out, "Stand still."

"We need to move," he repeated again, rasping roughly, lurching toward to the car, "Take him," he ordered her.

She looked at the unconscious man. Take him how exactly? He possibly weighted twice as her. Lashing out a catty hiss, she grabbed his arm, and pulled his body into a sitting position. Positioning the body in the technique that paramedics used to extricate the unconscious injured out of the cars, he stuffed his right arm under his left armpit, and passed her own over the other, and caught her arm that lying across his back at the wrist. She then pivoted her body aside, and rested his chest over the length of her side, and started standing up, hoisting him up together with her. She took small but quick steps, and thankfully, when she arrived to the car, Bruce had already managed to sit down on the passenger seat.

Covered with sweat, she opened the back door, and dumped her father over the backseat as gently as she could manage in the circumstances. The last thing she needed was a man having concussion at the back seat, when another was bleeding serenely at the passenger seat. Her breath labored, her right side aching with the activity after she had gotten punched with brass knuckles, she sat on the driver seat, and started driving toward the motel.

Turning his head, Bruce looked at her. "Are you fine?" he asked, his voice still rasping roughly.

Her eyes skipped aside, fixing at him a glare. "You're the one who is sitting there with a knife stuck at his guts," she shot back, "and you're asking _me_ if I'm fine?"

"I'll survive," he muttered, before he asked again, "How are you?"

She gave him another look. "I'll survive." His lips pulled out in a ghost of a smile, barely there, eclipsed by the reality; everything had turned to worse, just how like she had been afraid of. She always liked being right, but this time it didn't bring her any satisfaction, in fact, she would have gladly preferred to be wrong instead. "Those men—" Sucking in a breath, her eyes turned back to the road, "Military used guns, highly-trained defense techniques," she continued, "they aren't your regular street thugs."

As impossible as it sounded, his face turned even more stoic, as he nodded. "I know."

Her eyes shifted at him again. "What are we going to do?" she asked, but she already knew the answer. It was all over his face; for the first time she had known him, she could read Bruce Wayne's expression openly, without any trace of doubt.

"We're going to get him back," he answered, words sounding like an oath to her ears.

* * *

Thanks to all things good and sacred, before they arrived to the motel, Jason came to himself. She was already preoccupied with how they would get Bruce inside; another unconscious man tagged along would have been hard to explain. Harder.

His hand clutching the back of his neck with a loud groan, Jason straightened in the back seat. "Oh boy," he grunted, "I hate this." He looked at her. "What happened?"

Her eyes darting at the visor mirror, Valerie threw at him a glare, "I don't know," she shot back, "We're hoping you could tell us, _father._" The last word was an accusing hiss, spoken directly without any insinuation or allusion. She couldn't help but notice how those men had appeared after he had started asking around.

His eyebrows arched, looking at her back. "I beg your pardon?"

"Those men—" she snapped, her voice rising, "They appeared _after_ you started messing around!"

"Valerie—" Bruce uttered her name as if a clear warning, as Jason barked out, "Do you think I did this?" he asked, his voice rising, too, as his eyes clenched, "I sold you out?"

"I didn't say that!"

Jason's eyes narrowed further. "Then what's that you're saying, daughter?" he snapped back, and his eyes turned to Bruce, "You—" then he stopped. "What the hell happened to you?" he exclaimed, looking at Bruce.

"One of them stabbed him," Valerie answered, before Bruce could do, "What I said was that you started your fishing—" and continued, Jason's eyes still fixed at Bruce, "and we're in a mess now."

"How are you?" he asked to Bruce.

Her neck craned back, she answered in Bruce's place again, "Oh, god, don't overreact. He'll survive."

Bruce threw at her a glare as Jason smirked. "Your worry brings tears to my eyes," Jason taunted, "I'm fine, too, by the way. Thanks for asking."

Parking the car in front of the motel, she growled under her breath. Bruce started getting out of the car, but placing her hand on his upper arm, she stopped him. She turned aside to her father. "Go ahead, keep the clerk at the desk busy," she instructed, "I'll bring him in."

Without a word, he nodded, and stepped out of the car. When they were alone, Bruce gave her a look. "Oh, please," she fumed, "don't tell me you didn't think of it, either," she shot back at his unspoken accusation.

Clutching his side, he shook his head. "That's not the point," he said, rasping.

"Well, I believe, it's just," she rejected, opening the car, and came to his side. She helped him out of the car, supporting him along her side, his arm wrapped around her shoulders. She half lifted her head up at him. "It can't be a coincidence," she whispered fiercely, "They appeared just after he had made his contact."

His head angling toward her, he nodded gravely. "I know—" They started walking toward the entrance, "I'd already asked Alfred to dig deeper about Rory." He paused, his voice tensing even more, "There must be something we're missing."

For that, she didn't have any opposition. "Yeah..." she paused, walking into the hall, her eyes shifting toward the reception. It was empty. Jason had done his magic once again. "Those robberies..." she said then, directing him to the staircase, "We need to look closer to those robberies."

In silence, Bruce looked at her again. She shook her head. "It's how their ways collided..." she muttered, "I don't like this." Bruce didn't say anything again, but she still knew he agreed with her. He had asked a deeper search, too. His nature wouldn't let him do anything else anyway.

"We need to clear our images from the security cameras," he said after a second. She exhaled a sharp breath. "We can't let anyone see us around here."

Crisply, she nodded. The problem was that there were so many things to do, so many things to consider, but not enough time, nor enough man power. "I'll...ask...Jason," she finally said, admitting defeat, admitting that they still needed him, whether they liked it or not.

The same sentiment souring his white-sheet face further, Bruce nodded back. In front of their room's door, Jason was waiting for them. Extending her arm out, she opened the door with the skeleton key, the technology of pass cards hadn't still visited this place.

Bruce still supported by her side, she walked into, and disposed him on the chair around the table that still operated as their work station. Jason followed them inside, too, as she went to look for the first-aid. They needed to extricate the knife quickly, and then stitch the wound, before he bled to death. He didn't seem like he was someone he had lost almost a tenth of his blood, but she had already understood what kind of appearances Bruce Wayne could pull off.

Then he stood up, and started walking to the bathroom.

For the love of God!

She rushed after him, and caught him before he walked into the bathroom. She turned him around to her. "Come on, Bruce," she whispered at him, shaking her head. She started taking off his bloodied shirt, but he caught her hands.

"It's fine," he rasped out, his eyes darting up at Jason for a second over her shoulder, "I handle this."

She rolled her eyes, taking her hands off, and continued unbuttoning him, "Don't be stupid," she said, but he caught her hands again, this time tighter, his eyes almost firing.

She narrowed her eyes, glaring at him. "For god's sake, Bruce Wayne—" She pulled herself free, ripping the shirt off, "It's not time to be a prude... She titled her head up at him, "It's not like it's something I haven't—" the rest of the words vaporized in her throat as her gaze caught a glimpse of his chest.

In utter shock, she stared... Because it was something she hadn't seen before, it was something she had _never _seen before. Scars ran over the wide length of his chest, old ones, and new ones... Bruises, some already healed, some still fiercely purple and read. She couldn't see his whole upper torso, but the way it looked, she knew they were running also across his shoulders, upper arms, and back...

_You're the goddamn Batman._

She had known it, she had just _seen_ it an half of hour ago, but she suddenly understood that she had never realized what that meant truly. She had never realized how truly Batman he was. The truth was there, etched onto his body with fierce lines covered his skin...leaving its mark undeniably, irrecoverably.

Bruce Wayne was really the Batman.

Her eyes still fixed at his chest, she looked at him, as if she was seeing him the first time. She knew, she shouldn't, not Jason was standing a few feet away from them, certainly assessing the situation, she knew she had to stop, but she just couldn't tear her eyes away.

The world suddenly made so little sense. All of this made so little sense. An urge to run away rose strong in her, run away and never look back, she had done it before, she could do it again, but she just couldn't move her legs, either.

Understanding her immobilized stupor, Bruce finally decided to act in her stead. He covered his body with her, and looked at Jason over her shoulder. "Can you check the footage from the pub?" he asked her father, his voice close to a rasp, but also clear, not giving away anything, his demeanor stoic; he was the Batman, how she couldn't see it before...

She couldn't see her father's expressions, but she could still sense his eyes on her back. With that thought, she willed herself to crane her neck aside, and pivoted her body at him. Just like how she had expected, lighted keen eyes were staring at them, speculative... She cursed inwardly. "We need to clear our traces," she said, trying to keep her voice even.

Jason gave her a look then a second later, he nodded, turning to the door. "Don't worry about it," he said, walking out.

As the door closed after him, she let out a breath, dropping on a chair at the table. "I'm sorry—" she muttered, though she wasn't sure what exactly she was apologizing for.

Clutching at his side, Bruce sat opposite side of her. "It's okay," he muttered, taking off his shirt, "You wouldn't know."

Her eyes shifted toward him, as the scars appeared without any filter. Turning her eyes, she shook her head, as he looked down at the knife. She stood up and walked to the mini bar, her hands shaking, her throat dry like fallen leaves. She needed a drink, god, she needed lots of drinks. She took one of the small bottles of scotch from the fridge. Walking back to the table, she sat back.

"I'm fine," Bruce said, as she placed the bottle on the table.

She softly laughed. "Not for you," she opened and brought it to her lips, "it's for me."

From his wound, his eyes titled at her, and he gave her a look. She pretended she didn't notice. Swallowing a big gulp, she settled it down on the table, and neared toward him.

Slowly, she bent toward his abdomen, his muscles tense and straightened. She touched where the knife entered into his body, her eyes trained on the wound. She didn't want to look up, didn't want to see those scars, that look in his eyes. For a little while, he stayed in silence, too, letting her probing him with her fingertips, then he slowly spoke; "Your hands are shaking."

She let a hollow breath out at the remark, her eyes still on the wound, "Yeah."

He was silent again for a second, then slowly said, barely above a whisper, devoid of any accusation, "I'd packed diazepam," her shaking hands halted, as she swallowed, but she didn't react any further. "If you need—"

"No," she cut him off, her own voice close to a whisper, too, her eyes still fixated at his abdomen, "I'm fine. It'll pass."

In silence, he nodded, but she would still feel his eyes on her. So he had figured out her little alcohol problem. She wondered what else he had figured out, but she didn't ask. She didn't want to, she really did not. "The point of entry isn't wide," she said instead, studying the wound, "and it's not deep, either," she finally lifted her head up, "but it's gonna hurt a lot," she paused, her eyes darting across his chest, spotting even a bullet wound close to his heart, "but apparently you've survived a lot worse."

His lips pulled out a thin smile. She bent her head again, and taking the pad of gauze with her left hand, she pulled out the knife with the right one. As she quickly pressed the pad on the open wound, his head dropped back, a guttural hiss rising out of him.

She quickly lifted her eyes to check him, and saw that he was breathing hard through his nose, his eyes shot tightly close, his Adam's apple rising with each labored breath. Her eyes stuck on the sight before her. That was something she _had_ noticed before, but she hadn't realized the extent of it, either; Bruce Wayne was really a fine specimen. Her eyes again darted across the length of his chest, but this time for different reasons. He was hot, the scars were even adding a different charisma to him when you came to think about it.

She shook her head, as if to dispel the sudden thought. It wasn't the time to think of those things... not when he was bleeding under her hand. She opened the first-aid kit, and took out the surgical needle, thread, and other utensils. She first cleaned the wound with peroxide, then started patching him up.

As the needle tore the wounded skin, he let out another hiss. "How that happened?" she asked, pointing the gun wound with her head, mostly to take his mind off the pain, "A lucky shot?"

He looked down at her in silence for a second before he talked, "Quite the opposite—" He paused, "It was an unlucky shot."

She smiled faint, without humor, making another stitch, "For you," she said, "You got shot."

"It was Dent," he said then.

The retort died on her tongue. She swallowed, remembering Alfred's words... She shook her head, pulling the thread again with forceps. This time he didn't make a sound. The silence though became suffocating. "That?" she asked roughly, just to break it, pointing the zigzagged scar pattern over his upper body that looked close to teeth marks.

His eyes skipped over the odd scar, too. He then let out a breath, close to a hiss, and muttered, "Dogs."

Her hand halted over his wound as her head jerked up. "Dogs?" she asked back.

He nodded. "Yeah, big ones..." he continued, then shrugged half, "I'm carrying too much weight with the armor. It's hard to fight with rabid dogs."

Her hand still suspended, she blinked. Unlucky shots, armors, rabid dogs... Things made so little sense again, but she also understood that was the norm with Bruce Wayne. "And that?" she asked, directing her eyes another scar, because she didn't know what else to do.

"Fell off of a rooftop, landed on the top of a car," he answered placidly, no trace of humor for what he had just remarked.

And she lost all the sense in the world. Her eyes turned away from the telling scars that he carried like a badge, each retelling another story. She wondered what was hers; what was the scar he kept on his body because he tried to save her from a madmen? She let out a shaky breath. "This is crazy," she murmured, starting stitching up the wound again.

Under her bowed head, she felt his gaze on her. "You knew who I am," then she heard him say as she tied the last stitch.

Straightening back, she nodded, running her eyes away again, "Yeah."

"Still hard to believe?" he asked in a whisper.

The words had her head snap at him. She stared at the man that lay ahead her, naked, literally, as he looked at her back. The moment when she had seen first him, the real him, flashed before her eyes, him crouching beside his damaged car, making "her" scar. Somehow he now looked closer to that dispersed man who had just gotten out of an accident. His eyes were the same, too; keen, probing, intruding, to see what lay beneath, although there was a small difference now. This time he really looked like he could, as if she was transparent, bone and flesh, and he could see all.

But what he was seeing she didn't know. What he could tell if someone asked him how he got _her_ scar, she didn't know. Her heart skipped a beat, racing against her ribcage, and she understood how close they stood, inches away, she could feel even his breath over her skin, gentle, and favored with mint, and hot, so hot, it felt she was on a fever, her blood heating... then she noticed he had drawn closer, his eyes skipping at her lips.

She swallowed. It was so hot, and she was burning...her heart beating inside her eardrums... He came even closer, his eyes riveted on her lips, her heart skipped another beat then she understood something wasn't right. She was about to get kissed, but she wasn't thrilled as she would have expected her to be, no, she was...scared.

In a heartbeat, she stood up. "I—I—" she murmured, as Bruce flinched back, as if snapping out of a trance, and looked at her, "I—should check Jason," she muttered, pointing the door at her back.

Wordlessly, he nodded, his face closing, the look inside his eyes veiling, as his gaze turned away from her. She turned, and walked to the door, and it took all of her self-control not to run to it.


	22. Part VI-III

**Part VI. III — Full Circle**

* * *

With a grimace, Bruce stared at the door, even after Valerie disappeared behind it, what just had transpired between them turning one corner of his mouth down, even though he didn't have any inkling _how_ it had happened.

How he had almost kissed her, he didn't know. How the urge to get closer to her dimmed all the other realities in his mind, he didn't know. The moment just had evolved into something he wasn't sure what it was, her asking him about his scars, hovering just above him, and she was so close; apart like planets, but Bruce didn't know if he had ever gotten this close to a woman, if any woman had ever seen him like she had...not even Rachel, not even Rachel had seen him the way Valerie did.

_This is crazy..._

No wonder she had run out of the room. The first time since he had known her, the woman who had been throwing herself at him repeatedly had chickened out at the first sight of who really he was. She _was_ a smart girl, after all, Bruce always knew.

She understood what Rachel hadn't; any closeness to him was trouble.

The truth didn't bring him any pain, like it used to. It didn't matter. There had been times he thought his story would have a happy ending, but that was a long time ago. That book had already closed. All things considered, he was even glad that Valerie had seen it, understood he wasn't a knight in the shining armor. No, he was the Dark Knight, a fallen hero, and it was okay. It was his choice, and he had accepted it. Steeling his mind off, he turned his eyes away from the door, and focused on the present.

It wasn't time for kisses anyway. There was someone who needed his help. Putting a clean shirt on, he turned on his computer. His only relief was that he had a way to track down Rory. The lack of mobile phone would have been a problem, but luckily Rory was wearing the same jeans that he had placed a bug inside.

The computer opened, and he quickly typed a few commands, and the map of Belfast appeared over the screen. The red dot was there, at the north side, close the port, and already stationed. They had moved him into a secure place.

He sprung on his feet, and rushed out of the room.

* * *

Her head spinning, her heart drumming, Valerie stood her back against the door, and exhaled shakily, her hands trembling again. The frightened sense turned to confusion that she didn't know how to clear. This was ridiculous. She couldn't feel like this just because he _might_ kiss her.

She was a seductress, a woman that would bring men on their knees, not the other way around. This was...embarrassing. She forced herself to get a grip, resting her head over the door, and stilled.

She had a work to do, things she needed to take care of; it wasn't time to act like a blushing virgin because of a _kiss_. As the thought steeled in her mind she felt calmness washed over her. She took a small step away from the door, and tossed her hair before she walked to Jason's room.

It was time to deal with that, too.

She knocked the door, and a few minutes later, it cracked open, creaking, and Jason appeared at the threshold, holding his jacket, as if he was about to leave. Her eyes narrowed immediately. "Where are you going?"

He fixed a glare back at her. "To deal with the security cameras," he answered in a sharp tone, edged by exasperation, "like you _requested_."

She walked into. His eyes followed her back. "You made another contact?" she asked.

"What else would I do?" he asked back, slapping the door close, "Hack into their servers?" He shook his head. "You know it isn't my style."

She let out a snort. "You mean you called Hayes?" she asked, turning around, and looked at him challengingly. It was time to have that talk, as well. She couldn't delay it any longer.

At first, Jason gave her a look then a small smile pulled out his lips. He threw the leather jacket in his hand over the bed, as if he understood his plans might wait for a bit. "So that was the thing in the car?" he asked, walking to the table at the corner, and picked up an apple from a bowl on it. He sat on the chair, taking out his knife, and started slicing the apple. "You followed me," he remarked, throwing a slice into his mouth.

There was an accusing timbre in his voice. She shook her head. "Can you blame me?"

"For not trusting me?" he asked, his smile fading off then he put the apple down, "Not really," he muttered, pocketing the knife back.

For a second, she closed her eyes, exhaling deeply then opened them, and looked at her father. "Jason—" she started in a serious voice, "If you have something to...say, it's time to do that."

His head tilting aside, he looked at her back, his eyes unblinking. Under his close scrutiny, she felt fidgeting, but firmly stayed where she stood, immobilized. She would not move an inch. "Do you really believe I'd betray you?" he asked, his voice was now almost a whisper.

_Yes..._ She passed in her mind, but she couldn't say it out loud, she didn't want to say it out loud, she didn't want to feel the same disappointment again... The urge to run rose strong again, and she turned around. "I need to check Bruce," she said this time, calling another tactical retreat, and walked to the door, "Deal with cameras."

Her hand held the door when she heard his father slowly ask from her back, "You will never forgive me, won't you?"

She stilled, her steps halting, for a split of seconds memories returning. She wished she had a way to stop them, it was too late. No one could run from the past, the past was what they were now, and what she was now...? A desperate woman with a desperate act. "Forgive you for what? For betraying me," she asked, turning back, "or for behaving like it was no big deal?" The words cracked, her voice rough with emotions she couldn't let him see, let anyone see, but she couldn't hide them, either, not any longer... It was too much, _so much_. Was this what she deserved, for what she had done, for what she had caused...? Her own blame, her own sin; Clara, Michael, her baby... Her thoughts stopped, as sudden as a flash in the dark, and crushed down. Her eyes found him. It was there... The source of all of her sins, it was there, asking her forgiveness, and she still didn't know how to do that. Even if she did, even if she forgave him, how she could forget?

Looking at her, Jason let out a deep sigh, shaking his head, as if he was seeing that truly. "You can't change who you're, kiddo," he said, turning his eyes away, his voice echoing from the past, "you can only choose." He looked at her back. "And we both did. We both made our choices long ago."

She recalled what Alfred had asked her back in Gotham and she couldn't help herself but repeat the question, "And what about the consequences of our actions?"

He let out a smile, sadness covering it. "They always follow us," he answered, "Like death always follows life, and one day they will catch us."

"And then?"

He looked at her. "And then we die."

She shook her head, feeling life draining out of her. The world was suddenly behind a blur, her eyes pricking. Their last talk flashed over them, and she realized she still didn't have an answer for what she had asked him at that day, so she repeated again, "Why are you here, father?" she asked in a whisper, blinking away tears, "Why did you come with me?"

He smiled again, remembering that forgotten day, "You know why." She laughed, broken laughter cracking in her throat. "I'm here," he continued, walking to her, "Because you're my daughter. And I didn't want anything but the best for you."

Her laughter became louder, more broken. She shook her head. He took another step further. "I waited—" he whispered to her, "I wanted to see—I wanted to see if that was really what you wanted, not just a wishful thinking. I waited, sweetheart—" He let out a sigh, "—then I heard it." Her eyes snapped up at him, "And then I knew what I had to do."

She closed her eyes, a long trail of tears running down over her cheek. "Because you couldn't let me live a lie?" she whispered.

"Because I couldn't let you _believe_ a lie," he corrected fiercely, and grasped her at the shoulders. "We all tell lies. Do you think I'm not aware of your lies with the man over there?" He pointed at the door with his head, "But they don't matter. Because you know them as what they are."

Her heart suddenly skipped a beat. "Wh—what do you mean?"

He gave her a look, his hands dropping at his sides. "Kiddo, give me some credit. I know he's not your lover—" he said, sighing out, "I was suspicious before but after I saw the way you looked at his scars..." He looked at her, "like you have never seen them before...the man you're supposed to be love in with...?" His eyebrows arched in question. Suddenly spent, she ran her eyes away. "It's okay," Jason said, his voice almost assuring, "You don't need to explain."

Her head snapped back at him. "You don't want to know?" she asked, confusion kneading her eyebrows.

He shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he refused with an adamant voice, "It's your—secret."

That moment she knew he knew. He knew about Bruce. He had figured it out. He didn't look like he knew the details, but he had understood the gist of it; Bruce's true identity. "Do you really don't want to know?" she asked slowly. It wasn't him. Knowledge was the most important tool for Jason Allen. It was his nature.

But still, he shook his head in answer. "I know you need to do what Sean wants you to do," he said, "and that's enough for me."

She let out a shaky breath. She wanted to believe what her ears heard. She wanted to believe the words. She wanted to believe her father. She wanted to believe that he was only here because he cared. She didn't know. She couldn't. But Bruce was right. She would never know it for sure if she didn't let him in, if she didn't give him another chance. It was what she was after, too. If she deserved a second chance, why her father wouldn't? Her decision became adamant. She had to take the leap. "Christian," she said, turning to him, "I'm looking for Christian, father."

* * *

The walk back to their room was like a moment from a dream, something she couldn't be sure if it was real. She had told him. She had told him she was really going to kill herself, and be another person. The thought was frightening, but at least Jason hadn't reacted much. Ever the practical one, he had simply nodded, taking the surprise, and announced that he needed to deal with the security images. Perhaps it was just a front for him, too. She still couldn't know for sure.

She let out a frustrated sigh. This was all Bruce Wayne's fault. He had softened her. A small smile appeared over her lips on its account, remembering him, then dropped off. She stopped. Bruce! God, he was going to kill her! Once again she screwed things up. Jason discovered his secret. She closed to the door, and reached to the handle but her hands hung in the air as the door suddenly opened, the man in question appearing behind it.

Her eyebrows furrowed. "What are you doing?"

He left the room, taking a hold of her by grabbing her elbow. He started dragging them downstairs. "I found Rory," he simply declared.

Her steps faltered, "How?"

"The tracker in his jeans," he answered, still maneuvering them outside, "It's still with him." His eyes looked around, "Where is your father?"

Walking out of the motel, she paused before she answered, "Went to the source material."

Bruce looked at her hard. "He's gonna bribe one of his contact to erase the data," she explained, "it's easier than hacking into their servers."

"And more risky," he shot back, walking to the white Honda, "What if the man takes a copy?"

She shook her head, and answered with a more certain voice than she was feeling. "Jason wouldn't let that happen." She opened the door and sat on the passenger seat. "We should worry about Rory."

His hands stilled at the wheel, his eyes turning to her. He gave her a long, searching look, then his eyebrows tightened, and a scowl appeared, his eyes darkening. Her heartbeat quickened. "He figured it out, didn't he?" he asked, his voice edging, "He knows."

She gulped, running her eyes away, but words followed out even before she knew what was she doing, "I'm sorry."

He started the car, giving her the same answer from half an hour ago, "You wouldn't know." But the words this time had a strain, like he was getting tired of it. She could hardly blame him. Her eyes went toward his abdomen.

"How's your wound?" she asked.

"Fine," he answered crisply.

She let out a soft sigh. How things had turned this ridiculous between them she didn't know. "Bruce—"

"It's okay, Valerie," he cut her off, "It was only a matter of time before he realizes anyway." His eyes darkened further, his voice a sharp rasp, "I'll talk to him."

Ignoring the last statement, she shook her head, as he took a turn to exit to high road. "Don't," she said, softening her voice, "Let me deal with it," she asked to him, "We haven't talked much, either. I don't even know how much he knows."

His eyes skipped away from the road for a split, "What do you mean?"

"He said he doesn't want to know, because it doesn't matter." He glanced at her again. She let out a contained sigh. "I think he's trying to protect himself," she said slowly, "Jason has been always smarter than me." She gave her a small smile with close lips, "He's aware the less he knows the better it is for him."

_Sometimes it's best not to know_, she remembered, looking ahead. She wondered how much truth her words held. Perhaps he was really just protecting himself. Jason had been always the smartest. Look at how her life had turned out because of Bruce Wayne's secret. He might have definitely seen that. He was protecting himself, but perhaps he was protecting her, as well, a small little part of her whispered. If he didn't know, he wouldn't betray her. Her eyes skipped at Bruce. She wanted to tell him, but she couldn't, she couldn't confess... so she did the best next thing she seemed to be able to do; she asked for his forgiveness. "Bruce, I'm sorry."

His eyes trained on the road, he muttered, "It's okay."

She shook her head. "No," she said, "no, it's not." His eyes turned to her. "But I'm still sorry."

Turning his attention back to road, he slowly nodded in silence, but it didn't feel like absolution.

* * *

The tense silence in the car was disturbed by the long chirp from the tablet. Valerie quickly grabbed it as if it was a lifeline, and Bruce could understand the sentiment. After the talk they had had he wanted nothing else but to reach the warehouse, and do what he always did, trying to save an innocent.

The rest he could deal later. The only thing important now was Rory. It was apparent something had happened with Valerie, not only them almost kissing, but something even more demanding that had her apologizing. Mentally, he shook his head, chasing the thoughts away. He had a job, a mission; he had no other purpose in life now.

"It's Alfred," Valerie said, her eyes scanning the screen, "He sent us the police records."

He nodded. The file Sean had prepared hadn't mentioned it but he became suspicious. "See if he ever left the city," he ordered. She lifted her head from the pad, looking at him in question. "While talking to Jason, Rory said it's good to be home...like he left it at some point," he explained, "Sean's file doesn't mention it but check it," he told her again, "I want to see."

This time she nodded, and turned her attention back to the tablet. A few seconds later, her eyebrows clenched. "That son of a bitch," she muttered, shaking her head.

He knew it. His mouth set in a grim scowl, his suspicions confirming. Valerie was right in some point. This wasn't just about a misfit that didn't know how to fit in. "He left Belfast after he got out of the prison," she told him a second later, "he's just returned."

His hands gripped the wheel tighter. "The robberies," he rasped out, "What the file is saying?"

Her eyes darted over the screen. "A team of a four," she answered quickly, "operated between 2001 and 2003, usually jewelry store robbing. Their last job was a bank robbery in 03, possibly their retirement plan, but it didn't go according to the plan." She paused for a second, her brows furrowing further, "Jason had said they had disbanded themselves." She ran her finger over the screen. "There it is," she announced as Bruce glanced at his phone to check the map. They were closing to the port where the red dot was still stationed. "They seemed to have a fight...about a mole..." she paused, "and something about "the boss betraying them..." She then stopped.

She quickly passed her forefinger over the screen, but shook her head after a second. "The rest of the file is redacted," she told him, lifting her head.

His eyes shifted at her. "What?"

"The citations...the names..." she said, looking back at the table, "they're blackened."

Somehow he wasn't surprised because of that. "Look for the money," he ordered, closing to a seemingly warehouse district, "Did the police find it?"

Valerie's eyes darkened, as she understood. "No—" she answered a few second later, "No mention of it." She paused, "Do you think is it?" she asked, looking at him, "They're after the money?"

Bruce grimaced. "Possibly."

She let out a sigh. "Ah, that sounds more like Sean," she muttered.

He drove in silence, his eyes checking the darkened streets. Next to her, Valerie was doing the same, now holding his phone in her hand. She turned to right, and pointed ahead. "There."

Bruce looked at the three stories warehouse at the right side. He stopped the car at the corner, bowing his head to look closer. There was a lone fading light at the roof. The rest of the building was in the shadows. His senses stood out, his gut feeling giving a clear warning. His eyes bore through the fade yellowish light. Then he glanced at Valerie, his hand moving to the door's handle..."If I don't come out in fifteen minutes," he said, holding the handle, "call the police."

Her eyes widening, she looked at him. Bruce opened the door. "No—!" she cried out, and grabbed his forearm. He turned his head as Valerie pulled him toward herself. "What are you doing?" she exclaimed, "Are you mad? You can't go in there just like that!"

He pulled his arm back. "I have to," he muttered before he left the car.

She quickly mimicked his action and caught him again before he walked away from the car. "Valerie—" he called her sternly, "Stay here."

She did, she stayed firmly where she was, even though shaking her head. "It's insane." She looked at him. "You _are_ insane." He opened his mouth, but she didn't let him speak. "You don't even know how many people are there. They're highly trained and you're wounded."

He started walking. "It doesn't make any difference."

But she caught him again. "Yes, it does," she shot back, turning him to her, "Bruce, I know it's hard, but you don't have the upper hand. You're not—" She paused, gulping, before she completed, "Here you're not the Batman." Her eyes moved toward his abdomen as she reached out slowly to him, her fingertips brushing over his jacket where his wound lay beneath, hidden, "This isn't your battleground."

He took her hand, and tightened her fingers around his. "It doesn't make any difference, either," he told her, "In my backpack, there is a thumb drive. There is information for a Swiss bank account—"

She shook her head fiercely. "No—"

"Call the police if I don't—" he warned her again before he turned to walk away, but at the last moment his eyes caught something; two figures at the opposite side of the sidewalk, walking to the warehouse. Grabbing her at the waist, he pulled them into shadows. As Valerie followed his eyes, she released a soft gasp, "Oh, fuck," she silently cursed, as the police officer they had seen the last time with Jason walking together with another man around his fifties.

Bypassing them, the older man shook his head, clearly with irritation. "This wasn't our plan, Desmond," he ranted angrily. The tones...the words... they were familiar to his ears; he had heard the voice before... "I told you to wait—" Then he recognized it.

Sean. It was Sean talking with Desmond Hayes.

His eyes turned to Valerie, as she did the same. In utter silence, they stared at each other.

* * *

She should have seen this coming, she definitely should have. Nothing would be simple neither with Sean nor with Jason. She shook her head. "Well, this explains, I guess," she whispered at Bruce. "The police officer...the police who made redaction was Hayes."

Bruce nodded, his eyes still glinting with that dark gleam. She almost shivered. He was just about to walk to death, without blinking an eye, without any reservation. It was mad, going there with nothing, it was sheer craziness, but Bruce Wayne didn't seem like he knew that word's meaning. Or he did but it didn't make any difference, either.

She wondered, among all of those things he carried on, if he had also a death wish. That seemed to fit. She turned to him, and saw his face. Her eyes struck at him, she held her breath. The truth was all over his face. Nothing had changed. He was still going in. She shook her head. "Don't be stupid, Bruce," she whispered at him, "Please." At her own wonderment, she realized her voice turned to imploring. The damn man he was going to get himself killed, and the very idea was squeezing her chest.

He looked at her, a small sad smile suddenly appearing. "I thought you don't care—" he told her, "This is the time, Valerie, you wanted to leave—" The words had her breath catch in her lungs, like someone suddenly grabbed her at throat. "Go. You have the money. Find another doctor. This is not your fight."

She flinched back. Her eyes narrowing, she looked at him coldly. None of this had been her fight, yes, but there she stood, together with him, and it was a reality, a reality she couldn't escape. "And is it yours?" she snapped, walking on in him, "Because you want to save Rory? So tell me," she demanded, her voice heating, getting even closer, "How do you plan to do that when you're dead? Because if you insist to go in there right now," she pointed at the warehouse behind her, "that's what will happen." She paused, looking straight into his eyes, "Dead, both of you. But what would I know, right?" She smiled back at him. "I don't care."

At first, he looked at her, a dark fire glinting in the depths of his eyes, then it slowly quenched, as if he finally saw her point. It felt like a full circle. She was doing what Jason had done; because he was right. Dead people couldn't really save anyone. "So what do you purpose then?" Bruce asked a second later.

She didn't hesitate. "We find out what they _really_ want," she replied adamantly, "then we strike."


	23. Part VI-IV

**Part VI. IV — The Reason**

* * *

The tense silence ruled in the car, as Bruce drove to the dealer's bunker. Her eyes fixed at outside, Valerie gazed at the darkened sky, a myriad of emotions and thoughts swirling into turmoil in her, her insides close to a vortex. The heat of the moment passing, the fierce opposition had left its place to a confused haze, obscurity shadowing every little thought and emotion. Her voice had been so certain when she had told him "then we strike" but now she could hardly believe that decisive woman had been her. Bruce had been right on that part; this was not her fight; but she had been right, too; she couldn't escape from it.

But at least, he had accepted to deal with it in a discreet manner. Somehow she had suspected he would have instead preferred the direct approach, and picked up Sean from the warehouse.

As much as she would like him to blow off some steam, it would do no good, but only mess things up further. They had to be careful. It wasn't the time to be driven by impulses. Bruce wasn't one to act on basic instincts, even though he was impulsive, tactfulness was always in his actions; a calculated precision, even when he did crazy things like crashing into the beasty vans in order to stop them.

She had looked at the accident later, while she had been in Metropolis. She had found the reports on the papers. The way he had crashed... any lesser man wouldn't have gotten out of that car alive. No, he had calculated the impact, had spotted the weak points and the strongest and had moved accordingly like a stunt artist. Bruce Wayne was driven by his objectives, not by impulses; the man she had seen fifteen minutes ago wasn't the man she had seen in Gotham. He wasn't even the man that had come to collect her from the warehouse a month ago.

But all things considered, she wasn't the same woman a month ago, either. God, she wished this would finish as quickly as possible, or else she didn't know what kind of people they would turn into. She needed to find Christian, and start anew, and Bruce Wayne needed to go back to his city, and continued to be the idiotic hero that he wanted to be.

That was it of course they didn't end up dead at first.

She let out a frustrated grunt, shaking her head. Even not moving her attention away from the window, she could sense his eyes skipping at her for a second, before he turned back to the road. She shifted, and looked at him. His profile seemed like it was carved out of granite, stoic and taciturn, the face covered with beard giving his whole ragged demeanor even more edge. He really looked nothing like the man who had put his coat over her shoulders with a small assuring smile. This man looked like he had never smiled before. He had never even attempted too.

She slowly exhaled a contained sigh. "They wouldn't hurt him, Bruce," she said, softening her voice. She wanted to see the Bruce Wayne she knew, the strained man with a bit of darkness and violence, and hidden depths, but not this man who had forgotten how to smile. "Whatever they want him for, they also want him alive," she continued, her voice once again certain. Whatever the reason was for this kidnapping, they wanted Rory alive, she was sure of it. There was still time. "Sean was fighting with Hayes," she reasoned, "He was furious."

He stole another glance at her again. "Sean—" she started again, exhaling another breath, "He can be son of a bitch," she said, "but he's not a cold-hearted murderer." She paused a second, recalling their first talk, "He wanted Jason in because he wanted to deal with it peacefully." She looked at him. "I think he was telling truth. I don't know why—" she continued, "But he thought Jason would avert this."

She had expected the words loosen him up a bit but they had the opposite effect. Suddenly, he got even more wired up, his face darkening further. His head snapped at her. "Do you really don't know?" he almost growled, not just that rough rasp, but a deep guttural snarl, "Really, Valerie?"

Looking back at him, her face sobered. "Don't I know what?" she snapped back.

"Don't play naïve, Valerie," he told her, "it doesn't suit you."

Her expression soured even more, her mouth setting in a grim line. "What do you mean?"

"What I mean—" he answered; his voice dangerously low, "your father would be very well involved too."

She felt the blood pulling off her veins. She wasn't going to think about that. She wasn't going to believe that. He was here because she was his daughter, no hidden agenda, no other purposes. For the first time all in her life, he was at his side, because he simply cared. "No—" she said, "He would've said," she said, silencing the dubious voices in her mind, she wasn't going to listen to them. "He didn't want to know about you. He doesn't care." She looked at him. "He's here because I'm his daughter."

Bruce gave her a look back. "And you believe him now?" he asked.

She wanted to. God, she had never wanted something to be true this much before. "I don't know," she said, and gave him the answer he had given her before, "I would never learn for sure if I don't."

* * *

Ten minutes later, parked in a corner that faced Sean's bunker, they were waiting for the dealer to hit back to his home. As her phone chirped, Valerie took it out, and checked the message she had received. Bruce looked at her in answer. "It's Jason," she replied with an even voice, "Says he's back in the motel." Wordlessly, he nodded. The air between them had grown even tenser after their last talk. Bruce swore he wasn't going to open his mouth again until they found the dealer.

Talking didn't seem to do anything good to them, but only made things more difficult. He wasn't being fair to her, almost cruel, pressing on her too much, his reserve snapping as his hands tied down. His words at the warehouse had possible hurt her, even though they had truth inside, and now after his last statement, she had pulled inside in her own shell even more.

He needed to return Gotham. He needed to save Rory, found about that doctor, and turned to Gotham. This wasn't his battleground, Valerie was right. He was slipping away, his control dissolving. His grip at the wheel tightened, as if the fingers would tighten his own grip over himself, too. Valerie next to him tossed at him a quick look, but didn't talk, instead turn her head away. She was getting tired of it, too, he knew.

He almost opened his mouth, but then his eyes caught the figure walking on the sidewalk. Valerie straightened in her seat, her eyes heating. She shifted aside for a second. "I'll be quick," she said, reaching to the door, but just like she had done to him before, Bruce caught her at her forearm.

She swirled at him. He shook his head. "You're not going alone," he told her sternly, as she sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes narrowing, "Not this time."

"It's—"

He cut her off, "Already dangerous enough," and completed for her, "I don't want you alone with him." She tried to remind him the dangers, of course, he could hear her words even before she made them out, but it was too late for those, too.

He let out a deep breath, weighted with all of his frustration, worry and grievance, and edged with everything he had been feeling since she had dropped into his life, since the time she had looked at him, battered and baffled at the crash side. "Valerie, for the sake of my sanity," he rasped out, the coil in his stomach releasing with his breath, "_Don't _argue."

He didn't want to think of the possibilities. She was already at a risk. She was already in danger. If he could help it, he would have locked her in the motel. He had already enough problems, if they got her, too... The moment when the man had his metallic fist ready at her face flashed in his mind. He didn't want to make that choice again. Once he had, had chosen one person over another; one life over another; and he had failed. The guilt was still on his shoulders, he couldn't add another. He just couldn't.

For a second, Valerie stayed silent, looking at him, then she let out a breath, too, and shrugged. "Well, you don't look like anything like Bruce Wayne now anyway," she remarked silently, and left the car.

His gaze caught his appearance at the visor mirror. She was right. He was a ghost of the man whose face covered the tabloids every day in Gotham, even the man her father had seen in a no man's land. No, the strain of the last days had left their marks on him.

He opened the door and stepped down. Valerie came to his side before they crossed the road to the bunker. Before she knocked the door, he caught her wrist.

She looked at him in question, he shook his head. "This time I'll do the talking," he told her, his voice dropping a tone down on instinct, and pulled back from the door.

Her eyes still locked on him, Valerie took a step back in answer. Without another word, he turned to the door, then kicked it open.

It felt _fucking_ nice.

* * *

Her eyes widened, Valerie watched Bruce as he tore apart whatever reserves that had been keeping him intact. Age hadn't slowed down Sean. Quick on his reflexes, he swirled around as Bruce walked into the bunker, his hand reaching out to his back, but before he could even aim the gun, Bruce closed on in him. With a quick and deft move, Bruce pried the weapon out of the older man's fingers then effortlessly disassembled the weapon, letting hard metal pieces fall down at his feet, hardened eyes fixated at the smuggler through the whole event.

From behind, Valerie gaped at him. For a man that remarked distaste for guns at every opportunity, his hands had a crazy custom that suggested habituation. She had sworn nothing about Bruce Wayne would have surprised her anymore, but each time the damn man found a way to make her eat up her words.

Still without a word, he caught Sean at the back of his neck, and dragged him toward the armchair. "What the fuck—" the older man exclaimed, his hands rising, then his eyes finally caught her. "Fi!" he cried out, "What the fuck are you doing?"

Bruce threw him at the chair. "No," Valerie said, approaching to Bruce, her own steps adopting a predatory carefulness on their own accord, "the question is—what the fuck are _you_ doing?" She stopped beside Bruce and looked down at the man. "You lured me into this shit, Sean," she said, "I want answers now."

"From the beginning," Bruce completed with a rasp, walking closer, "Start from the beginning," he ordered, "with those robberies."

Bruce's hovering figure was a very intimidating sight, but Sean had seen some intimidating figures in his own time. A smile cracked up his lips, and his eyes found her. "Felicia—" He shook his head, "You know this isn't the way to get me talk."

She looked at back, her lips not moving an inch. "Just answer him."

Sean smiled further. "Or else?" he challenged.

Bruce took another threatening step forward, but Valerie stopped him. She approached him closer instead, and knelt in front of his legs. "I saw you fighting with Desmond—" she told him evenly.

His eyes narrowed. "How?" he questioned.

She shook her head. "It's not important," she answered. "What's important is that—" she said, "I know you don't want this happen. I know you want to help Rory. And we can get him out—" She paused for a split of second, "But you have to help us."

The light suddenly winded down in his eyes, and he seemed old, not like the man a second ago. He passed a hand through his hair, and shook his head. "You can't help him now," he said, "I doubt if anyone would."

"We can—" Bruce countered, "But if you only start telling truth," he rasped, "What those men want from him?"

Sean's eyes darted between them, then heaving a sigh, he started talking. "Seven years ago, Rory fell in with a group—"

"Yes, the crew that used to rob jewelry stores," she interjected, standing up, "but they disbanded themselves. They robbed a bank for the last time, but got greedy after it, and finished off themselves," she paused, and amended, "—aside Rory."

Sean nodded. "Yeah, Rory was only a wing man, spotter," he confirmed. "They didn't think of him a real crew member."

She nodded back. "But Rory got caught later too—he went to the prison," she said, "and Jason helped him to get a free time."

"Yeah—" Sean confirmed again with another nod.

"And files—" Bruce pressed in, "The files on him are redacted by Hollis's old partner, Hayes—the man you have been fighting tonight."

The older man looked at him, then his eyes found hers, and shook his head. "Jason shouldn't have gone to see him in the open day light. It rattled them."

"Who are they?" she asked.

"Former RUC officers, special task forces, some even former MI5 agents," he answered openly.

She frowned. "And what the hell they want from Rory?"

"From Rory?" Sean shrugged, "Nothing really. They only want the glorious old days, I suppose," he said, "The times they had a goal, a purpose in life. None wants to see them now. No one wants to be reminded of them, of their sins." He sighed out. "They want what every discarded tool in the history wants, Fi—" he remarked, "They want to matter again."

The words hit something in Bruce, Valerie could see, could _even_ sense. He took a step to the dealer. "What happened?" he asked, his voice edging on a growl, "Tell us from the beginning."

Sean stared at him for a few seconds, his eyes measuring, unblinking. She knew she should have gotten worried, but she found herself not caring any longer. "A month ago, in one night, Desmond found me in the pub around the corner," Sean started retelling after the moment, "He told me Rory has returned to the city. Rory had left Belfast after the prison. The money from their last heist—no one found it. They got him pretty badly a couple of times in the prison, but no one figured out what happened to the money. The rumors had it that they had lifted close to a quarter million pound from the bank." He paused for a second for breath, then started again, "Desmond said people have started looking for him. It made sense. It's big money. He asked me if I wanted to be in, and I said yes. I learned about his—friends later." Her face soured, as Bruce next to him almost creaked with tension. Sean gave them a look, shaking his head. "At first, I really thought they were just after the money. I thought they just spun that—story for a cover." He heaved another sign. "I didn't understand until tonight."

"So you asked me to bring Jason in," Valerie asked, "because you thought Rory could talk to him about the money?"

"Damn man," Sean muttered, "If he didn't upset the applecart..."

Bruce shot him a look like dagger. "Because the others don't only want the money—" Sean nodded in approval. "They want the war again."

Bruce had been right all along. "It was the only time when they mattered," Sean said back, "No one wants tools in the peace times."

Then she understood why his words had struck at Bruce earlier. In the words was laying Bruce's own life; his past. She remembered how easily people had discarded Batman at the feet of the Joker. One day that was going to be his future, too. When this all ended, when Gotham finally had peace, no one would want to remember the Dark Knight again. He was going to be like a forgotten memory, a necessary evil for the war times, a tool that had no place in peace.

Unfairness of the whole situation had a foul taste in her mouth, her chest constricted, something deep in her trying to claw out of her chest. It wasn't fair. He was a fool, willingly accepting this fate, and she knew he would carry that cross too without any utterance. The damn man could shoulder the whole world's weight without a single resistance.

It wasn't fucking fair. She wanted to slap him, she wanted to shake him off this ridiculous self-blame that somehow had convinced him that he deserved the cruelest punishment in the world, but who she was to say anything the way he chose to live his life? The person who he chose to be. It wasn't her place.

Besides, Bruce Wayne didn't look like he needed _her_ to save him anyway. He was closer to Sean now, his demeanor having an urgency that she had never seen in him before. "How many of them are there in the warehouse?" he demanded, "Where they're stationed? The weapons and their arsenal, how long they can hold themselves up? Is there more coming?" he asked relentlessly, "Tell me everything!"

As Sean gave him the information he sought, she stayed behind, weariness returning. She felt tired, of everything. Another question turned in her mind, echoing in the depths of her consciousness, trying to be recognized, but she wasn't sure if she really wanted to do that. Some things once they were spoken, despite how much you wished, would never be forgotten again.

Some lies were just too lovely to turn your back... she wondered how her life would have been with Michael if she didn't leave him that night. She would have been happy. In deep down, she knew it would be a lie, but at least she would have been happier than she was now. Sometimes it was really the best not to know. _Ignorance is bliss..._

But uncertainty was a poison that tainted the soul and mind. Bruce took a hold of her arm, taking every answer he needed, but her legs didn't move. There was still one answer she needed to know. She couldn't let it go. She could live a lie, but she couldn't believe it. She turned aside, but Bruce caught her again. "Don't—" he told her, as if he realized what she was going to, "Valerie, don't ask. Let it be. You don't like the answer you will receive."

She shook her head. She knew she would not. She had walked that path once, but still..."I have to know—" Like the last time, even though at the end it was only going to break her heart. _You know the answer, you have always known it._

And perhaps that was her curse. She always knew. She took a step further away from Bruce, and looked at Sean. "You didn't ask Jason in just because he helped Rory before," she announced, her shoulders straightened as if she was facing an enemy, and in a way she was. "You knew it would rattle the cages," she remarked, steeling herself, the moment surely feeling like a battle. "Desmond reacted fast," she continued, "It disturbed them," and only paused for a second before she asked, "Why?"

Sean's lips parted with a smile. "Come on, Fi—" he almost taunted, "You've been always a smart girl. You know why."

Her front dissolved, words echoing in her ears. _You know why... _She closed her eyes, struggling to keep tears at bay, "The files mentioned a boss..." she managed through dry throat, "The boss betraying them..." She opened her eyes, "It was Jason, wasn't it?" she asked, "and Rory was his mole."

Sean's smile grew, almost in resignation, and the pity in his eyes was like a sharp knife twisting in her insides. "He told you he's here because of you, and you believed him, right?" he asked.

No, no, she didn't, but she wanted to. For the first time all in her life, she wanted to believe that she wasn't alone.

Some fool she was.


	24. Part VII-I

**PART VII**

**Part VII. I — "The way things were meant to be"**

* * *

Inside the bunker, everything was in a slow mo, on the pause, as if a spell was casted out, the whole world squeezing until it was a tiny bubble just large enough to fit her. As Sean faded off her sight, snapshots flashed over her eyes, filling the bubble...

_Are you always my father? Don't worry I'll bring you another one the next time I come..._

_You're missing it... You can't run away from who you're. No one of us can._

_You know why... You have always known it. Some people are not meant to be parents._

With the last words, the bubble exploded. She gave out a labored out, her blood drumming in her ears, and realized Bruce had come closer, his hand gently holding her arm, his eyes searching hers to make sure she wasn't going to have a break down.

_Hell no!_ It didn't matter, it didn't make any difference. She had wanted to know for sure, and she had her answer now. She pulled her arm back from Bruce's touch. "Valerie—" he slowly said.

"I'm fine," she stopped him with terse mutter, and turned to Sean again. "You're coming with us," she told him.

The older man looked at her, his eyebrow arched. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're coming with us," she repeated again stiffly, "We will need your—expertise, Sean." At her statement, Bruce gave her a look, his eyebrows clenched. Pivoting aside, she turned his look, challenging him.

He needed his help, if he was going to do this, if he wanted to get Rory out of that warehouse, he was going to need all help he would find, both knew it. His eyes stayed on hers for a second while, then as if he accepted defeat, he spun on his heels, and started walking to the door.

She turned back to Sean, and pointed the door with her hand, "After you."

Outside in the street, Bruce surveyed the area, as Sean quickly got in the car, trying to spot any prying eyes. Valerie followed his example, too, until he became satisfied that no one was checking on them. Then he shifted toward him, and the look in his eyes told her even before he made any word.

"I'm fine, Bruce—" she told him again, "Everything turns out the way it's supposed to be." She realized how much her words held the truth as the moment she had spoken them. It was the truth, and it was okay. This was the way how things were meant to be.

_April, 2004_

_"__I finished a whole bottle yesterday," the blonde woman remarked with a teary whisper, her head bowed in shame, perhaps to hide her watered eyes, or perhaps she wasn't strong enough to face off with the pity in their eyes. She didn't know. She tried to remember her name, but her mind also drew a blank. She realized she didn't know her, not really; they were all anonymous here._

_She ran her eyes away, her hands fidgeting the water bottle in her lap. Club soda and water, they had been the only liquids she had been drinking for a while. It sucked, as most things did in the life. "I saw him yesterday—" the blonde woman continued to retell her failure, "at the pub on the corner of my block." Her voice faltered, as a sob escaped from her throat. "He was eating _dinner_..." the word came out like a tearful cry, "...laughing, talking, joking, like nothing happened." The woman stopped, exhaling a shaky, sobbing breath, "My little boy died because of him, and he was laughing...like nothing happened," she cried out, then dissolved into the tears, "My whole life ended, but it was like nothing happened to him!"_

_She turned and looked at the pitiful figure, as the woman cried her heart out, her shoulders shaking, her face hidden behind the trembling hands. Her own hands were steady. She opened the water bottle, and took a sip. The counselor of their little "Anonymous" group said something but the words didn't reach to her ears, her eyes stuck at her hands. Her hands hadn't been trembling since the day she started following the group six months ago. Inside the group, everyone had a different problem; the blonde woman who had just talked had lost her child because of a drunken drive in an accident, the bald old man sitting next to her had lost his wife because of cancer, the other got date-raped by her co-worker, but couldn't prove it... Their problems were all different, but their miseries were common. And it was good to know that she wasn't alone, wasn't the only one who was suffering in the world, that there were people faring far worse than her. Her eyes found the woman again. She really looked worse, like her whole life had really ended._

_"__Sarah—" she heard her name called out, pulling her out of her thoughts, "Sarah, how is it going for you?" the counselor asked, kindly, leaned in her seat in the middle of their circle._

_She frowned, whether for the usage of the name or for the question she wasn't sure. She wasn't sure why she had chosen to give away her birth name, either. The name sounded as authentic as Felicia or Cecilia was; nothing more than a shell now, a wishful thinking. "I'm doing fine," she answered curtly, her eyes fixed at the counselor, almost in challenge. She was doing fine. In fact, she was doing excellent. Her eyes skipped down at her hands, hands once had been decorated with handcuffs, now free and steady, "Everything turns out the way it's supposed to be."_

* * *

The ride back to the motel passed—uneventful, for their standards. Sean sat at the back seat with watchful eyes, but keeping his mouth shut as Valerie pretended she was alone in the car. As edgy as it was, Bruce favored the quiet moment, feeling a blast soon would come to.

He wasn't sure with how the older man would evade it, he wasn't even sure if he was being completely truthful with them, but either way it was better to keep him before their eyes. Besides, Valerie was probably right, they might need his expertise. She had mentioned before the former guerilla was good with explosives, and Bruce knew it wasn't an exaggeration. This wasn't his battleground, so he needed to fix that, before he did anything, he needed to turn on the tables.

And a little bit gun powder would certainly help. Valerie hadn't said anything, but he knew it was what had passed in her mind when she had tagged Sean along with them. His eyes shifted toward her, and he stole a glance. She really looked fine, there was nothing in her expression that would suggest what she had just gone through, but Bruce learned better than to be fooled with her masks.

She was harboring a storm inside, and much like him, her control was slipping away. He couldn't let that happen. He needed her intact, functioning, now more than anytime, and now they were approaching to the lion's den, where her father lay. He couldn't imagine how she would react seeing him again.

His eyebrows clenched, as his grip tightened on the wheel. He had told her not to ask. He had told her let it go. Some secrets were best not to be discovered. Sometimes truth only made things worse. He had made that mistake before, and people had paid with their life. Harvey's face flashed in his eyes, followed by Rachel...

He tossed another glance at Valerie, as he parked the car in front of motel. Sean stepped down, walking to the motel quickly, as Valerie followed him, but he stopped her at the last moment, catching her at the upper arm.

She shifted aside, and looked at him in question. "Valerie," he told her, "Do you want me to hire a room for you?" he asked as tactfully as he could manage, deciding it was the best to keep father and daughter apart as long as he could help it.

But she stayed expressionless, asking simply, as if she hadn't understood, "Why?"

He sighed out briefly, and gave out the things he had been hearing thrown out regularly, "You know why."

Her expression suddenly hardened, as a reaction finally appeared in her features. It felt like a victory. "Never—" she spat, "Never say that thing to me, Bruce," she warned, "Never again."

He exhaled sharply. This...he needed to deal with this. There was someone he needed to save, before it was too late, and a city, he needed to go back. "Valerie," he started, strain thinning his voice, "I'm sorry, but you need to sit this one out."

Her eyebrow arched, "Why?"

"Why?" he asked back, holding back another "you know why" at the tip of his tongue, "For God's sake, be reasonable. I don't want any trouble anymore."

She flinched back. "Trouble?" she asked, "Do you think I'd cause you—_trouble_?"

He shook his head fast, and amended, "I didn't mean that!"

"Then what did you mean?" she hissed.

He leaned forward toward her. She needed to understand. He needed her, the thought was frightening, but he needed her, intact and functioning. This wasn't his battleground. "I listened to you at the warehouse, Valerie," he said, "And you need to listen to me now. Go and hire another room, and find me the warehouse's blueprints."

In silence, for a second, she looked at him then a small smile appeared on her lips. "Does it frighten you, doesn't it?" she asked, "Me having a break down?" The smile widened, "causing you more trouble instead of helping you to solve them?"

His face hardened too. "I need you, Valerie."

She shook her head, giving him a pitiful look, "Bruce, darling," she said, her hand rising to touch his cheek, "You only need to save someone." Smiling at him the last time, she walked away from the car.

* * *

Her back turned on him, Valerie climbed up the stairs that led to their room, Bruce on her heels. He hadn't tried to say anything after her challenge, but let her be, understanding he couldn't change her mind. She wasn't even sure if the words had hurt her or not, she honestly couldn't tell the difference any more. She knew at the end that was why he wanted to keep her around, another thing she had always known; his idiotic heroism always needing someone to save, to redeem. She was his school project, and if he failed with her, he would easily find someone else. It looked like it was his own drug, his own way to find relief. Each to its own. She had found reprise with other people's miseries, and apparently he found it with others' tragedies. It hardly made any difference. Jason was right on that part. Everyone used each other, and the reasons were always selfish. She had thought Bruce might have been an exception, but she was wrong. He was just selfish in another way. She had seen worse people.

But she had really seen worse people. "Bruce—" she called him in the corridor before they reached to the corner that Sean was waiting them, halting her steps, "Don't think I don't appreciate everything you're doing for me, everything you're _willing_ to do me for me," she said with an earnest voice, because she did, she understood him. She smiled at him again slightly, "I know it's hard to deal with—" she paused, trying to find a suitable word to describe her connection to him; nothing seemed to fit in—"with an asset," she decided at the end the closet thing she could think of, because the only other word she could think of was "tool" and she didn't want to say it out loud, "and I know I'm not making it easy for you either," she said, letting out a breath, "But you can't fight my battles."

He looked at her, as if her words had taken him surprise, but then shook his head. "I never said you're an asset, Valerie," he told her slowly.

She looked at him back, rising her shoulders up, "Then what I am?"

His eyes bore through hers. "I was hoping one day you would be a—friend."

"A friend?" she laughed out, shaking her head, "I don't have friends, Bruce," she whispered under her breath.

"Neither have I, Valerie," he countered, "Not really." He took a step forward, his eyes still fixated on hers, "Perhaps one day we learn how to be one then," he said, before he started walking to Sean.

She looked at his retreating back, her eyes tearing up with something she didn't know how to name. Then ahead of him, walking from the other side of the corridor, she saw _him_.

She froze where she stood, as the same time Bruce stopped and caught the sight of him, his sculptured back stiffening. Jason's eyes darted between them, lingering on Sean, then recognition lit in them. With an exasperated sigh, a small weary but still horrid smile lifted his lips up, and it was enough to reanimate her again. The life returned to her, with a surge of heat, sweeping all over her, boiling her blood. She started walking toward Bruce, as the same time Jason did. "Valerie—" he called her with the preferred name, punctuating the word with tip of his tongue when they reached to Bruce, but she didn't spare him a glance.

She bypassed him, only hissing at Bruce, "Bruce," she spat, "Get _this_ _man_ out of my way."

* * *

Inside the room, she was behind the computers, looking for the warehouse's blueprints, as Bruce took out his second pack back from the wardrobe. "You were finding them marks to hit?" he asked, opening the bag, while fixing a glare at Jason. She continued to her act. She wasn't going to acknowledge him anymore. Once he had just someone she had known, but now he was dead to her.

Her fingers hit the keys, with more force than necessary but she still kept her eyes trained on the screen. "Something like that," Jason said, "They were childhood friends," he started explaining, "The leader of their clan's mother got seriously sick, and they needed money—" He paused, his eyes feeling on her, she sensed them burning over her head. She still didn't lift her head. "Rory joined up to help, but then they got greedy—you know the oldest story." He shrugged then his words halted again. "Rory didn't. He started telling me about stuff. I wanted to take him out, but he was afraid they would hurt anyone."

Sean let out a sinister laugh. "They did," he said, "Themselves."

"Yeah—" Jason answered, "See, the oldest story."

"Money—what happened to it?" Bruce asked, cutting the chase.

"Rory had told me before he had given it up to people in need," Jason answered. She couldn't help herself. A snort escaped out of her. "He pulled a Robin Hood act."

Bruce's hands halted over some little round black metallic balls. "You know he doesn't have the money?" he asked, looking at Jason.

"Of course, I do," Jason answered, with an obvious shrug in his voice, "How do you think he managed to survive this long with all people looking for him? I arranged a safe spot for him." He let out a sigh. "He should have never returned."

With the corner of her eyes, she caught Sean's expression souring, "But if you knew about the money," he asked, "Why did _you_ return?"

Jason looked at him back. "Isn't it obvious?" he said, "I returned because my daughter asked me to."

A silence followed after his statement, as her hands pulled into fists. She felt every eye in the room turning to her, their silent gazes burning her skin. Anger rising high in her, she stood up from her chair. Perhaps Bruce was right. She should have just hired another room. She didn't need to listen to this mockery.

Without a word, she started walking to the door. She didn't neglect slapping the door back behind her. It made a good noise. Outside in the corridor, she walked to the staircase to get herself a room, but before she reached it, she heard another door bang behind her.

With a frustrated sigh, she spun on her heels, "Bruce, I'm really not—" she started but stopped as soon as her eyes fell on the figure looking at her in front of the door.

"Sarah—" Jason said, walking to her, "We need to talk."

She shook her head, as if she couldn't believe what she had heard. "Talk?" she hissed, "What we have to talk now, _father_?"

"Sarah—"

She took a step closer to him, "Don't call me that!" she cut him off, "I'm done with hearing your justifications, your excuses—" She shook her head. "I'm done with you."

He let out a sigh, exasperation, still, despite everything, still tinting his breath, it fucking felt like the old times. "Do you see why I haven't told you about it before?" he asked, gesturing with his hands, "This is the exact reason." He took a step closer, too. "You will never learn to look beyond your own pain."

"Oh, now is it me to blame?" she asked, her eyes widening, her hand pointing her chest. This time she really couldn't believe what she had heard. "You could have told me!" she screamed at him, "For once in your life, you could be honest with me!"

"God's sake, _Valerie_—" he cried back, "You knocked my door after four years, tagging along with you a fucking billionaire that kicked my people's ass, then asked about someone I didn't hear in ages." He looked at her. "What did you expect me to do? Seriously, what would _you_ do?"

She shook her head back at him in resistance. "You should have told later. Just hours ago, I asked you there—" she pointed backward toward his room, "I asked you!"

His face suddenly became old, his shoulders sagging. "I didn't tell anything, because I knew you would never understand."

She let out a broken laugh. "You were right. I don't—" she said, her voice breaking much like her laughter, "I don't understand."

He took another step closer. "Sweetheart," he said, "I just didn't want to lose you again—" his hand reached to her cheek, "Not after I found you."

She slapped his hand away. "Finding me?" she hissed at him, "Finding me how exactly?" she asked, "_I_ found you. I came to you, not the other way around. Four years, father, four years, and you never even tried once. You just let me go." She gave out a shaky breath. "So don't stand there, telling me that you found me. I don't believe you. You're not here because of me," she started moving again, "You're here to make sure none of this come to bite your ass."

He caught her elbow. "That's not true."

She looked at down at his hand first, then her head lifted, finding his eyes. "Is it?" she asked, then shook her head, gulping through a lump in her throat. "Maybe we got it wrong, father. You once told me you were sorry for being a disappointing father, and I'm sorry for being a disappointing daughter, too."

"No—"

She shook her head, cutting him. "I'm seeing it now. I'm not the daughter you wish to have. I'm—week, not strong as you. I'm someone who can't see beyond her own pain." She flashed at him a small smile, turning the words back, "possibly had it from Mother." She smiled more, looking around. "You know, I never blamed her for not wanting me, I was just a possibility to her, not like you, not a reality in flesh and blood. My childhood passed watching you leave me behind, and asking myself why? Why he's leaving? Why he's not taking me with him?" Her eyes found him again. "Guess I know the answer now."

"Sarah—" he called her name softly. This time she didn't correct. It hardly mattered anyway, too.

She took a step up closer to him. "You were right about the baby. I didn't keep it, because I was afraid if it was born, I would get stuck...My lie would become a...reality that would change everything." She stopped, swallowing hard, words now like beaded glass in her throat, words that she had never uttered before, words she had never even passed in her mind before, "but that was only one part. The other part, another part was afraid it wouldn't," she said, "Was afraid that it would change nothing at all. I would still leave my child, like my father did." She looked at him, tears threatening in her eyes, "What if I was just like my father? Someone who would leave his own blood? The answer was there, and I was scared to find out."

She took a step down, and squared her shoulders. "Now I have that answer, too," she said, "I'm not your daughter. I'm not like you," she paused, a single tear escaping out of the corner of her eye, "Though I'm no better, either." She held the railings, and started climbing down, giving him a last smile, "You were right, Jason Allen. Some people are really not to be parents."

Outside, she pulled up the collar of her coat, turned and started walking away. She told herself it was okay. This was the way things were supposed to be. They were never meant to be parents, nor a family.

_April, 2004_

_There was a small but fatal difference between her and the rest of her group, after each session, there was always someone to pick them up, whereas she always left alone. The blonde woman had her husband, the balding widower had his child, and the working girl had her lover to gather them up in their loving arms. Each time, outside the safe heave where Alcoholics Anonymous held their meetings, she watched the companionship they had created shrink until it became a tiny bubble to only fit her in._

_Climbing down the marble steps, she told herself it didn't matter. It was the way things were supposed to be. She didn't belong with them, she had made her choices._

_She pulled up the collar of her jacket, and started walking away then she saw him. Her body froze, steps faltering. How long had passed since she had seen him the last time? Ten month, a year... she couldn't remember. He was waiting at the last step, hands stuffed into his pockets, a bored expression over his face as he looked around with disinterest, and it was the exact look why she didn't want to see him again. She walked to him with quick, agitated steps, a slight tremor shaking her hands. She clenched them into fists. _

_When she stood in front of him, he finally turned and looked at her. "What are you doing here?" _

_The words were barely a hiss spoken through the clenched lips. She had thought she had been clear enough not wanting to see him again the last time they had spoken. "I wanted to see you," he said though, as if it was the most obvious thing, "How are you doing?"_

_She let out a snort. "Don't act like you care."_

_In return he let out a sigh. "Sarah—"_

_"__Don't call me that," she snapped, "I'm not Sarah!"_

_He looked at her. "Then who you're?"_

_"__I'm the one who you threw into the fire to save your hide," she retorted, her eyes flashing, her voice thinning even more with anger._

_"__For god's sake, it passed almost three years now! When will you let it go!" he cried out. She gave him a seething look in silence. He shook his head in exasperation. "Don't—don't color me as the villain of this story, sweetheart. I never forced you to do anything."_

_"__No, you only manipulated me to your ends!"_

_"__I never lied to you."_

_"__You never needed to."_

_A smile broke over his lips. "Yes, I never needed to do."_

_The force of truth in his words shattered something in her. Yes, he had never needed to do. You're missing it, passed in her mind. And yes, she had, God burn her soul beyond the hell, she had. "Why are you here, father?" she asked, her voice breaking much like her insides._

_"__You know why."_

_"__No—" She shook her head, "No, I don't know." "For two years I've been wondering if you're ever going to acknowledge, show some little remorse for what happened because obviously you feel something, but of course you're not because it's _you_—" The words rushed out in a frenzy as she let out a bitter laugh, "and you can't accept it because it also means you can't pretend any longer that it means __**nothing!**__"_

_"__You're my daughter!" he protested, "It means everything!"_

_"__Then why do I have to go there—to those people I don't even know—" she cried out, waving her arm at the building behind her back, "to find some little solitary that would remind me that I'm not alone!"_

_"__Is that why you go there?" he questioned, taking a step further, his eyes questioning, "Really?" he asked, then shook his head. "You know what your problem is—you never stop lying to yourself."_

_She looked at him with disdain in answer. He shook his head._

_"__You don't go there because you're alone, Sarah," he said, "You go there to find relief. You go there because to you want to see you're not the only one whose life is in shit. You go there because misery loves company. That's why you all do that little gathering; you all want to tell yourself you're not alone, it makes you feel...relieved, because you __**can't **__accept something, either."_

_"__What's it?"_

_"__Bad things happen to people all the time. And nothing, neither any wishful thinking nor any remorse would change it. You built a lie, because you thought you could have started over, had something different, but there are no second chances, kiddo, not in this life. We just born, live, and then die."_

_"__Then why the hell are you here?" she shouted at his face, "Why did you even come at the first place? I was having a life with Michael until you came and fucked it up."_

_"__Were you?" he asked, "for real?" She looked at him. "Sarah, I know what you did."_

_"__What?"_

_"__I know what you did," he repeated. "I know you were pregnant." She closed her eyes, tears filling in. "Sweetheart, you can tell yourself as much as you like you built a life, but only thing you built was a lie. And you knew it, and you didn't keep it because you knew if there was a baby involved things would have turned into a reality, a reality that you couldn't easily leave."_

_"__It didn't stop you," she rasped out, "You left me."_

_"__I didn't even know you exist until you were six," he said in return, "then it was my reality, too," he said, looking around, "Don't you see it? Why do you think I'm here?"_

_"__I don't know—" she said brokenly. She had never. "Why are you here?"_

_"__I'm here because I care—" he admitted, as if the truth was costing him all of his, "There you go," he said, "I said it. I care about you. And I wish it would be enough." He looked at her, letting out another sigh, "I know I'm not the father you wish me to be, I know I disappointed you more than you can count—" She laughed bitterly, her tears mixing with her smile, "But no one asked me what I wanted. No one asked me if I wanted to be a father."_

_She turned her eyes at him. "Then what would have you said if they did?"_

_He looked at her back, his eyes heavy, clouded but she saw the truth even before he spoke. "You know the answer. You've always known it. Some people are not meant to be parents."_

_"__No, they're not," she agreed then exhaled a heavy breath, squaring her shoulders. "Then in that case, I should release you off this burden," she remarked, her voice now clear, "You're not my father anymore. You don't need to care about me anymore. You don't need to feel any remorse." She looked at him. "I'm just someone you once knew. And you're the same to me."_

...and it was the way how things were supposed to be.

She looked at the pub at the opposite side of the street, where the last time she had seen Rory fighting in front of it. For a moment, she weighted her options. She could turn her back now, and leave. She had the USB stick from Bruce's pack back, and after all of this, she was sure Sean wouldn't deny her request now, if for nothing, then for the old time's sake.

But she had a debt to Bruce Wayne, and be damned her if she left before she paid it back. If that was what he wanted, then she was going to find him a means to achieve his end.

As she crossed the street, her telephone chirped. She checked the screen, and saw that he was calling. "Valerie—" his tone had a frightened urgency, something that had brought a smile on her lips, "Valerie, where the hell are you?"

Looking at the locale, she asked back, "Do you really want to save Rory, Bruce?"

"Valerie," he said, suspicion entering into his voice, "What are you doing?"

"Paying my debt—" she simply answered, and closed the phone.

Taking a deep breath, she walked into the pub.

As soon as she put a step inside, all men inside looked at her, then all at once pulled out their guns.

She flashed a smile with all the poise she could gather, and walked to the only man who wasn't holding a gun pointed at her head. Smiling further, she stood in front of him. "Hello, Ronnie," she greeted him, "I heard you've been looking for me."


	25. Part VII-II

**Part VII. II — The Strain**

* * *

"I'll be on her in a minute," Sean remarked behind his back, as he tracked Valerie's phone, while Bruce listened to the ringing tone in his ear. There was no answer. There hadn't been any answer since the time he had talked to her the last, fifteen minutes ago, and he had tried, countless times.

His eyes fixated at the window, he breathed out roughly, and closed the phone, staring outside. Fittingly, rain had started. It was lightly pattering on the windows, creating an ominous sound in the silence of the room. He exhaled sharply. When he saw her he was going to kill her. _Paying my debt_...passed in his mind, as his jaw clenched with his scowl. He was so going to kill her.

He had no idea what the words meant, but he knew whatever she was up to, it wasn't a good thing. His eyes skipped to the older man that was standing at the edge of the window, watching the rain outside serenely. His scowl deepened. Whatever this was, he also knew it was because of _him._

He should never let her stay in the same room with her father. His fingers tightening around the phone, Bruce approached to the older man. "What did you tell her?" he demanded, his tone taking a rough catch in anger and worry, close to his distinctive rasp. He had to protect her. He had given her his words. They had made a bargain; his money and protection for her silence and skills... And she was keeping her ends... _Paying my debts..._ That was what she thought herself for him, an asset that had to prove her worth, earning her keep... He had never understood what those words had meant, not really. Was that really what he was asking from her? To become an asset in a fight there was no winning.

Shifting aside, Jason turned to him. "It doesn't interest you, _Antony,_" he answered, stressing the name pointedly, as his eyes darted at the dealer behind them.

As his jaw clenched tighter, Bruce almost heard the sound it made. "Yes, it _does_," he rasped, and took a step closer to him; a threating gesture no doubt, but Jason stayed the same, unaffected. "She isn't in her right mind," he went on, "whatever she does, she will be in trouble." He felt his gaze turned to a blade, looking at the older man, "and it'll be on your shoulders."

Again, Jason stayed stoic, not moving an inch, neither for his gaze, nor for his words. "On my shoulders?" he asked back instead, his own eyes narrowing then he shook his head. "Boy, she feels she has a debt to pay _you_, not me," he hissed, "So if you want to blame someone here, I suggest to look into the mirror."

His jaw throbbed, his look turning into a glare. "What did you do to her?"

Jason looked at him back. "I saved her life."

"By ruining it?" he rasped out, his eyes still fixated on the green gilded eyes.

Jason didn't run away his. "Sometimes the only way to save someone is to kill their hopes," he said evenly, "Knowing that she will never forgive, will never accept." He paused then his look softened, and turned to searching. He came closer. "Can you do it, Mr. Wayne?" he whispered, "Can you play the villain willingly?" he asked, "with the only hope that she will be spared?" He took a small step back, "Can you do it, boy?"

The silence ruled between them as they gazed at each other. The truth was that he could, he could understand that better than anyone in the world, but it brought him no peace. Jason gave out a small, sorrowful smile, and that moment Bruce also understood the older man had realized something about the Batman no one ever did. "See, boy," Jason said with his smile, "we're more alike than you want to believe, more than you want to admit." His smile grew a bit more, "And off all people in the world, she chose to trust _you_."

For that, Bruce had no answer to say. He turned his back to the older man, and started pacing through the room, calling Valerie in every second, until Sean shifted in his chair in front of the computers, his eyes still facing at the screens, "I found her," he called them.

Bruce ran to him, as Jason did the same. Bruce looked at the results on the screen, as soon as he saw address he felt something pulled out of him with a sharp breath out of his lungs. He had recognized the address.

Next to him, Jason reacted in the same way, letting out a gasp, too, "Oh, kiddo..." he muttered under his breath, "What did you do..."

Cast off a stone, Bruce gazed at the screen as his suspicions got confirmed; the address they had found her revealing to be none other than Ronald's Looney's locale, the gangster who swore to put a bullet in her head the next he saw her.

With a growl, Bruce stormed out of the room. If she was still alive, the next time he saw her, he was going to kill her himself!

* * *

The last blow erupted at the corner of her mouth, bursting open her lips. As she fell down off the chair they had put her on, blood dripped down along her jaw. On the floor she coughed, spitting blood, and lifted her head at Ronnie who was standing a few feet away from her. "Are you done?" she asked, the words roughing through puffed lips, and with trembling arms she pulled herself on her feet, "Will you listen now?"

Another blow hit her. The force of it had her sway on her legs, but she managed to stay on her feet. "Listen to what, whore?" Ronnie shouted, coming closer, "More lies?"

"No lie—" she answered, a smile blossoming out slowly over her bloody lips. That was it; she got him. If he started speaking, regardless of what he was saying, if he started talking, she knew they had passed the "I'm gonna put a bullet in your head" stage. The rest now was depending on her skills. She needed to get him to believe her. And given how things had gone between them before, that was going to be hard. "Search it as much as you like," she challenged though, taking the "best defense is attack" approach, "You'll see I'm telling the truth."

"You never tell truth!"

She looked at him, and slowly, so slowly she started walking toward him. From her back, she could sense his men's eyes darting toward Ronnie, as if to look for directions, but Ronnie's attention stayed on her, so his men's hands remained still. Good. They were going to need all of them. At the end, they—his men were the reason why she was here.

"Ronnie," she called him, as she stopped when she was an inch away from him, and looked directly into his eyes, "Say one time I told you a bold-faced lie?" She shook her head. "I never lied to you, darling, and you're mad at me, because you know it's true."

His hand rose again, but before it hit her again, she caught it, grabbing his wrist. She had gotten beaten enough. She had _let _him blow off his anger, but he had to understand she was here on her choice, not the otherwise. His men reacted at her move, pulling out their guns, and waited an order. She didn't even spare them a glance, her eyes fixated at the man in front of her.

"Your father casted you out, not because of me, but because you couldn't stop behaving like a child instead of a man," she said evenly, "and sadly I'm seeing you haven't changed since then." She let go his hand, shaking her head, "You're still behaving like a child."

"You're—" he hissed, but she cut him off.

"A quarter millions of pound, Ronnie," she said, approaching closer, "It's there, waiting for us, but you're refusing it because you're—mad at me?"

"I don't trust you."

She laughed out as if he made a joke. "Darling, you don't need to."

He took a step forward, and before she could do anything else, he caught her at the throat. This time she didn't do anything, but let him again. "I swore the next time I saw you—"

"You were going to kill me, I know," she rasped, with a smile, cutting him off. His fingers tightened further around her neck, pushing her head back. She found his eyes, her head still inclined backwards, and smiled further. "Ronnie, I didn't come here to die." With a quick hand, he took his gun from under his belt.

Before he reacted, she placed the gun in his other hand, and brought it against her chest. Ronnie dropped his grip over her neck, as his head cast down, looking at the gun. Her fingers circling his hand holding the gun, Valerie looked at him.

"If you have it in you, it's time. Do it—" she whispered at him, taking another step closer, "Look into my eyes—" He stared at her back, "and pull the trigger." She licked her lips. "I'm afraid," she breathed out roughly, "of many things, many, many things, but not of you, Ronald Looney." She dropped her hands off, and took a step backwards, the gun still poking at her chest, "Decide," she demanded, "What kind of man are you going to be? A little boy who is mad because someone broke his poor heart," she asked, her lips pursed down with a derisive mock, "Or a real man who can put petty grudges aside to take what he wants."

Ronnie lowered his hand, and tugged his gun inside its holster then he reached to her again. His hand held her by her hair, and forced her head backwards like he just had done. She smiled, this time a wicked grin, saucy and tempting as he looked at her, his face expressionless.

Then he crushed his lips on hers. She didn't pulled back, but didn't open her lips, either, she only let him kiss her, much like how she had let him beat her. A few seconds later, he pulled back.

"If this is another game, Fi—" he rasped an inch above her lips, his teeth gnawing the split he had done at the corner of her mouth, "I'm going to pull the trigger."

* * *

Outside, the dark rain clouds had veiled the moon, wind picking up speed. Raindrops were beating hard. It really seemed fitting; the storm had arrived. Before Bruce stepped in the car, getting out of the heavy rain, Jason caught him at his elbow. "You can't go like that," the older man hissed angrily.

"Let go my arm," he slowly said, stressing each word deliberately, holding on his reserves not to snap the hand holding his arm. Understanding the state of his mind, Jason backed off, releasing his grip.

"The Prince Charming is off to rescue his princess again," he remarked, a mocking tinting in his voice.

Bruce spun on his heels, his fingers fisting inside his palms, and he forced them stay along his hips not to punch the other man at his face. "Someone apparently has to," he rasped out, looking at Jason.

"Of course," Jason said, snorting, "And how you're going to do that?" he asked further, "You don't even have a gun."

Bruce took a threatening step toward the former guerilla. "I'll find a way," he hissed. He was the fucking Batman! "I've managed through worse odds, Jason Allen."

"I bet you did," Jason retorted without missing a beat, "But so she did." He looked at him, his eyes searching. "Did it ever occur to you that she doesn't need your help?"

Bruce looked at him, his eyes narrowing as raindrops sipped over his eyebrows from his wet hair that clung on his forehead. This was madness. He shook his head, and told him the bottom line that changed all facts, "She's together with a man who wants to kill her."

"A man who has still feelings for her," Jason corrected, still not affected, "Hate is the other side of love, and it's as strong as its twin sister." He pulled closer as two men stared at each other under the rain. "I know my daughter, Bruce. She doesn't have a death wish. If you go to her now, you'll only endanger her." He held his arm this time gently. A thunder clapped above in the sky. "You have to trust her," Jason said for the last.

Every fiber of him was telling no. He couldn't leave her alone. He needed to get her. He couldn't fail again, not with another one. Especially not with her. She wasn't just a woman that he had saved once anymore. No, she had grown closer, had become a part of his life—of his secret. He couldn't close his eyes to that fact. He didn't know what she was; an ally, an asset, or just a...friend, but he knew one thing, had always known it clearly, since the time she had found the Tumbler's schematics, she was his responsibility.

And he couldn't close his eyes to that, either. He opened the car, and drove to the pub. He parked at the closest corner, and surveyed the area. Rain had turned into a downpour now; the sky above them had opened up and thrown everything inside out. Several plans coursed through his mind, and decided there was only one thing he could do; just walk in, and then he would improvise. Inclining forward, he reached out to the glove compartment, and took out the gun Valerie had stashed there before. The cold metal snapped at his skin, his bile rising in his stomach. He had held guns before many times, but it was the first time since that day he held one with a clear intention of using it. He steeled himself. If that was what it took, then so be it. He was going to do what he needed to do, like always. She was his responsibility. Despite of her own shortcomings, she was in this shit because of him.

He stepped out of car, and raising his coat's collars against the rain and wind, started walking toward the pub. Before he walked in, though, the doors opened, and _she_ walked out.

Dead in his steps, he stopped in the street, and looked at her, as she halted, too. There was a blood stain along the corner of her mouth, he could even see from across the street, her wet loose locks ruffled over her shoulders, glued at her cheek, chin and neck, where he saw bruises and red fingermarks across her skin.

Something hit him in his stomach, as his chest squeezed, his lungs burning...with relief and anger at the same time. She walked to him. For a moment, they both stayed under the downpour motionlessly then she heaved out a heavy breath. "Bruce," she said softly, looking at him, "You shouldn't be here."

"_You_ shouldn't be here, either."

She sighed out again. "Let's get out of here, then." She turned and walked to the car.

Bruce followed her, but before he stepped in, he took the first-aid kit from the trunk, and slid into the driver seat. Inside the car, Valerie was sitting in silence, her head resting backwards, her eyes closed.

When he didn't start the car, she opened them, and twisted her head aside at the headrest. Her eyes looked at him in question. "We need more men, Bruce," she explained after the brief silence, "We can't take them alone."

"That was foolish, Valerie," he forced out, trying to keep his temper in check. He could deal with a shaken-Valerie, he could deal with a hurt-Valerie, but this aloof woman was trouble. She was reckless.

"Drive," she ordered evenly, turning to the road, "We need to prepare. We will meet with them before midnight in front of the warehouse."

He didn't turn on the motor, instead opened the first-aid kit. "You're bleeding."

"I'm fine," Valerie seethed out, a cold fire entering in her voice, "Can you drive, please?"

He lifted his head, and looked at her. She shook her head exasperated. "It's best Ronnie don't see us together—alone."

His face hardened, but he understood what her words meant. He let out a coarse breath through his nose, but closed the kid, and obeyed her command. He drove until the corner at the next street, away from prying eyes then stopped the car again. Valerie this time didn't protest.

His hands reached to the first-aid kit again, but she reacted first, and took it before he did. He let her. She opened the lid, and took out peroxide and a cotton ball. She pulled down the visor mirror, wetted the cotton with solution, and started cleaning her bleeding mouth.

Bruce watched her as she took a small breath, tending the slash at the edge of her lips, his muscles straining, his hands pulling into fists on their records. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to kick something. He wanted to break that hand that had touched her... He wanted to shake her senseless to stop her being this reckless, this out of reach. His eyes drew to the fingermarks across her neck, his scowl pressing his lips further into a thin line. "How did you convince him?" he asked at last.

Her hands halting, her eyes skipped at him before she resumed her cleaning. "I told him about the money," she answered simply.

Exhaling sharply, Bruce looked at hard. He should have known. "The money Rory doesn't have, you mean?" he rasped out.

"So says—Jason," she shot back fast, but hesitating before she uttered her father's name.

"You think he's still lying?" he asked.

Her eyes stared at her own reflection for a second, her face expressionless. She threw the cotton away, "It wouldn't be the first time, would it?"

"Valerie—" he started but she cut him off, turning to him.

Then finally there was again life in her. Her eyes were flashing, as thunderous as the storm outside, "Give it a rest, Bruce," she hissed, "Nothing, nothing you say won't change the truth."

"And what if he wasn't lying?" he asked back, his voice rising as he leaned toward her, "Goddammit!" he shouted, "what do you think he'll do to you once he realizes you lied to him again!" He grabbed her upper arm and turned to her toward the mirror— "Look at yourself!" he yelled, pointing the fingermarks around her neck, "He tried to choke you!"

She pulled her arm free, "That's my problem, not yours!" she yelled back, "I told you before. I'm not a damsel in distress. I've survived this long without your help."

She then stepped out of the car. His blood running in his veins, Bruce followed. Raindrops beat against his skin mercilessly, but he didn't care. Valerie didn't seem to mind them, either, as she started walking away from the car.

Grabbing her arm, he stopped her. "Where are you going?"

She tried to pull herself free from his grip. His hands tightened. "Away," she snapped, "I'll see you at midnight."

He shook his head, letting out a snort in disbelief that vanished inside the storm. "Valerie, if you believe if I let you go—"

She cut him off, laughing out, "And what makes you think that I'm asking your permission—" she said back mockingly, as the same time her chunky heels stepped on his foot. She broke out of his grip. "Contrary to all evidence, Bruce," she said, looking down at him as her chin titled up, "You're not the boss of me."

Motionlessly, Bruce looked at the figure under the heavy rain. Her eyes were the darkest shade of the green again, as she started at him challengingly, her hair clinging to the sides of her face, her chest moving with the force of her breaths. She seemed proud, and tall, but there was something savage in her, uncultivated and ferocious, a pinch of violence and darkness, and he recognized it as it was his own.

And that vigor, that tension, that strain had been always there, wired up between them since the time they had stared at each other at their crime scene, and he couldn't close his eyes to that fact, either.

He let out a heavy breath, snapshots flashing too fast in his mind he failed to grasp any of them. His eyes found hers again, eyes staring at him daringly, for what he wasn't sure. She was there, just out of his reach, so close, but once again, it felt like they were apart like planets. His breath became even more labored, as she kept staring at him, as if she was waiting for something—for what he wasn't sure, either.

He heaved out another breath, feeling the fat raindrops against his skin then his eyes skipped down, toward her lips... He breathed out again... and something in her eyes turned even darker, as she let out a breath out, too. Something snapped in his insides, the distance between them shrinking until the whole world squeezed into a tiny bubble, large only to fit them in. Then with a crystal clarity that faded everything else to black, he knew what he _wanted_ to do.

With a long but quick step, he closed in on her, took her face between his hands, and crushed his lips on hers.


	26. Part VII-III

**Part VII. III — "No Fairy Tale"**

* * *

A thunder clapped outside, as Bruce dived in her with a deeper move that shook the car along with them, her hand shooting out in the air, reaching to hold something—anything—whatever thing she could find, a rough grunt erupting out of her throat, partly from pain, partly from a primitive relish. Bruce echoed her raw reaction with his equally savage response, as her hand clawed at the window, her fingers leaving their marks on the tempered glass that was misted with heavy breathing and passion.

Despite her many, many attempts, she couldn't still believe this was happening, even in her current position as she squirmed under him helplessly, but even through the foggy haze of lust that covered everything else in her mind and the rest of the world in a dark red, she knew it was the truth; she was here, and they were doing it. She was fucking Bruce Wayne or rather _he_ was fucking her, in the backseat of a car, like there was no tomorrow.

They hadn't even managed to go through their clothes, no, there hadn't been enough time; his frenzy hadn't left any place for the usual arts of love... Valerie hadn't even realized how she had ended up at the backseat, out of the downpour; one moment, they were staring at each other, and it was so hard even to breath, like the whole world squeezed inside her chest, then the next, he was kissing her so wildly, so savagely it was impossible to match with his zest.

But she had tried. She had opened her mouth, and had turned his kiss, and for the first time she had known him, Bruce Wayne truly lost whatever control he had had over his basic instincts. She hadn't understood how he had managed to open the car, pulling her inside, all whilst his hands were working on her trousers under her coat, but when she was finally on her back on the backseat, she was free of her coat, and her tight leggings were peeled off around her ankles, where her boots still decorated, and in a heartbeat, he was inside her.

The rest was a tussle through a tangled mess of clothes and bodies, in a silence that only filled with rough breathing, gasps, and occasional raw grunts, and the sounds of the thunder outside, and even though their tongues told no words they talked to each other in a language that spoken in skin and sweat and need.

She knew she should be scared, this—this was going beyond anything she had ever experienced. It didn't feel like a simple lay, and danger bells were running high in her mind despite all heat and fog cobwebbing her brain. She knew there lay the dragons, she knew she was treading through the uncharted territories that every map left only a white blankness, but she simply didn't care.

Outside, the world was still the same, and they were still the same, too, but for the moment, at least for that moment, she could pretend nothing else would matter. And, it was enough.

She titled her neck up, and caught his eyes, as he made another move inside her, deeper, his hair clung on his forehead with rain and sweat, the darkened eyes staring at her back. She rose slightly against his chest, still covered with his unbuttoned shirt, and with a crook smile, she pressed her lips on his.

It was crazy, all of this, him, her, _this_, it was all mad, and a wise woman would just stop at that moment, turn back and retreat to the common sense, but she had never been that woman.

* * *

When they finally settled down, all was in silence, aside the storm outside. Bruce slowly pulled out of her, and straightened back, retreating to his corner of the seat, his eyes darting away from her.

She let out a small intake of breath, and mimicked the gesture, feeling the reality whether she liked it or not returning, as the carnal frenzy faded off, leaving only a few proofs of what they had done scattered around in its wake.

His eyes still averted from her, Bruce started buttoning up his pants, and she followed his example again. She pulled her leggings up over her legs, and zipped herself. The tight thick cloth came with difficulty over her sweat-laden skin until she made a low grunt from the back of her throat.

At her low grunt, Bruce's eyes skipped at her, she caught the quick glance with the corner of her own eyes. She murmured a curse, fighting with her trousers, and shook her head, but still kept her eyes trained down on herself.

It was ridiculous, ridiculous to feel like this, but she couldn't lift her head up, and face with him, either, because she quite knew what she was going to find in his eyes. Regret. He had understood what he had done, had understood his—mistake.

It wouldn't matter. It was just heat of the moment, she knew. He had snapped; that strain between them finally breaking off, and she would say they had cleared some air, blew off some steam. That had been always her idea, after all. But she wished he would have stopped behaving like it was the end of the fucking world.

Way to make a girl feel all special, really.

She reached out to her top where he had thrown it away on the floor, and pulled it over her head, a snort escaping out of her, despite her intentions. With the sound, Bruce finally decided to acknowledge her presence. He turned to her, and his eyes found hers.

And for a moment, his look stole her breath away. She had readied herself for the upcoming "shame look" but inside the eyes that were staring at her, there were many things; confusion, perplexity, even a bit bewilderment, and beneath all of them there was a pinch of lust glinting, still, but there was no remorse, there was no regret.

She felt something leave off her chest as she looked at him, and then his corner of his mouth slowly titled up in that fashion of his to form out a little, faint smile. Suddenly, she found herself reflecting his smile back.

She let out a small, relieved breath out. It hadn't changed anything much, their precautious situation was still as crazy as before, but at least he wasn't going to behave like it was the end of the world.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, his eyes darting around again, but this time in a very unlike Bruce Wayne fashion. "I—I," he said, his voice faltering, before he started again, "I pulled back—" he remarked, his eyes facing anywhere but her. Hers stuck on his figure, for a moment, she couldn't understand what he was saying; this was a Bruce Wayne she had never seen before. Over the days they spent together, she had seen him in many ways; unmovable, angered, pissed, tensed, cold like a marble, but this man, this awkwardly faltering man wasn't the Bruce Wayne she had ever seen; and truth to be told she would have never imaged even in her wildest dreams to see him like this.

"But if you want to be sure—" he continued, his eyes shifting at her then she understood what the hell he was talking about. Ever the cautious one, he was talking about the birth control, because his craze hadn't left them a single inch of common sense to act like proper adults, and get a condom.

But she was the ever cautious too, when it was about pregnancy. She didn't make the same mistakes, well, not all the time, especially not with _that_. She smiled at him. "No need," she said, "I'm already on birth control—" she paused for a second, "and I'm clean, if you're wondering," she added.

Something heated in his eyes, as he shook his head. "That wasn't what I meant—" he quickly said.

She knew he hadn't, but the moment gave her an opening to put the ridiculous awkward moment to an end, so she smiled a bit wider, wilder, and looked at him, "Why?" she asked, a husky mocking entering in her voice, "Alfred never gave you lessons about sex safe?"

His expression first was puzzlement, and it looked even funnier in his distorted state, then he shook his head, closing his eyes for a second. "That's a disturbing thought," he murmured under his breath, as his lips formed out another half-smile.

She let out an exaggerated sigh. "Be thankful you never saw him having sex at least," she said, faking a gasp. His eyes jerked up open, and he looked at her, "I did—" she continued, shaking her head, "still having nightmares. Thankfully, I was half drunk, so details are still fuzzy—" she laughed out.

He let out a small laugh, too, shaking his head back at her, then his eyes found hers again. When she looked back at him, she saw his eyes had lost whatever little humor it was in them, but adapted the usual tension whenever he looked at her in that way. She felt her heartbeat fasten.

"Valerie—" he started softly, as she braced herself, that thing in her chest pinching, but she forced herself to put a brave face, "I—" he said, but the rest of his words died as his phone squalled, breaking over the soft silence between them, thunder still roaming outside.

She heaved a breath out, as Bruce took his phone, and looked at his screen. His face then closed off, but his eyes darted up at her. "It's Jason," he told her after the brief silence.

She felt the last barriers of their moment succumb down completely, as her father's name echoed in her ear, reality hitting on her at full force, crushing down everything else. She didn't say anything, only turned her head aside, and watched the storm outside. Bruce opened the line.

"Yes," he answered, the word almost barked out. She wondered what kind of _talk_ they had after they had understood she had gone to Ronnie. Jason possibly had tried to stop Bruce coming to her—rescue. She knew her father, and Jason, goddamn him to hell and back, knew her rather well, too.

She couldn't imagine Bruce taking that well. She wondered if that had been the reason for his—erratic behavior when he had seen her; when he had kissed her, inside in his frenzy, passion, and fervor, there was also desperation. She had tasted it.

"Yes," Bruce repeated placidly, his voice curt and dry, "She's with me." He paused for a second. "We'll meet with them at midnight," he said, then added before he closed the line, "We'll be there in half an hour."

Tugging the phone back in his pocket, he turned to her. "We need to move," he said, "They're waiting for us. We need to prepare."

She nodded, and opened the car's door, and stepped out to slide back again on the passenger seat.

When she settled back on her habitual seat and Bruce on his own, everything again felt the same.

* * *

As he drove back to the motel, the silence once again ruled inside the car. Valerie was still gazing at outside, her head turned away from him. His grip tightening around the wheel, his knuckles turned to white. One move, one slip of his control, and he had messed things up even worse.

It wasn't his intention; now looking backwards he didn't know what had enslaved his mind that much that he almost ravished her like a horny teenager in the backseat of a car...and he wasn't still being truthful with himself.

He knew exactly what had enslaved his mind. He had wanted to kiss her. He had wanted to feel her, feel her skin, her breath, her heart beating against his. Whatever it was, it wasn't just lust. All indications were suggesting very _clearly_ that he had somehow developed...feelings for her, there was no purpose in denying that anymore, but it wasn't love. He knew how love felt. He had loved Rachel many, many years, but what he...felt...for Valerie, it was different. He couldn't explain how different it was even if he tried, but he knew it was. It was more of camaraderie, enriched by the shared experience, tragedies, and secrets that he couldn't tell anyone else, secrets he hadn't told anyone else.

And he had no idea where that fact was leaving them now. They had sex. They couldn't take it back, and pretend it didn't happen, even though Valerie looked like she could. He remembered how easily she had directed the moment between them in the backseat, when his frenzy had died and what he had caused hit him, like a punch in the stomach. He couldn't look at her, because he knew she was going to require an explanation, and he hadn't had one; he still didn't have.

He could jump through rooftops, he could jump off a skyscraper to save someone, he could charge against a battalion all alone if it was necessary to save someone else, but he didn't have any idea what to say to a woman in their condition. His previous relationships were quasi non-existing; he had never had the chance with Rachel, and a few others...they had never gone beyond anything that he would consider even remotely close to the situation he was facing now.

All in frankness, it felt like it was his first time, not because he hadn't had sex with anyone since his return to Gotham, or because of awkwardness, but because of that desperate need, that fever, that frenzy he had only lived once all in his life, and he really didn't want to remember that. His eyes stole a glance at her, and somehow at that moment Valerie reminded him of Lina, with the same look in her eyes, and with the same edge in her kisses.

And, he had no idea what he was going to do with that fact. He didn't regret it, despite everything he didn't regret what he had done. It had been so long, _so_ long he had done something just because he had wanted to; doing what he wanted was a luxury he couldn't afford. No, there was no regret in him, but still he had complicated things, perhaps irrecoverably.

Because there was a reason he couldn't do what he wanted to; a perfectly good reason. When he had called her name before her father had called, he hadn't known what he could tell her, aside not regretting it, but that was it. He really didn't know what else to say. When this all ended, they could sit down and talk but he wasn't seeing how that would help their problems.

He had already accepted the truth. There was no normal life for him, not anymore, that hope had died together with Rachel. He had told her his secret, and she had decided to wait for him, and that mistake had cost her off her life. No, he couldn't ask that sacrifice again from someone else, he couldn't be that selfish. This was his own burden, his own cross to carry. He was already asking a way too much from Valerie; so much that she had felt necessary to dive in the middle of a gang that wanted to kill her to pay her debt, no, he wouldn't ask that from her, either.

There was only one thing he could truly offer her; his dead body. He knew that was what was going to happen one day; sooner or later, no, sooner than later, he couldn't keep doing this; but he couldn't stop, either. How he could have? Rachel had died for that battle. Harvey had lost his soul because of that fight. How he could stop and close his eyes to their death, like nothing happened when they had sacrificed everything? No, he couldn't stop fighting, even though Valerie would accept...a life...with him.

And, he wasn't even sure why she would want something like that with _him_. Yes, she had never hid her attraction for him, but his—secret, the real Bruce Wayne had scared her; he could remember the way she had looked at him when she had seen his scars the first time, the way she had run out of the room, scared. Valerie was a hard woman to comprehend, as if there were two sides inside her clashing off constantly; one moment she could suggest they turned back their backs on someone who needed their help, with a dismissive "bad things happen to people all the time" and the next she would risk her life to save that person. She was a walking dichotomy on the legs, and Bruce knew it because he had recognized that as it was his own, as well. It takes one to know one, after all.

No, even though he _could_ have stopped, have turned his back on to what many people, including Rachel, had sacrificed for, he wasn't sure that was what Valerie was asking from him. He didn't know for certain what exactly had gone through between the father and daughter, but he knew that whatever it had been, it was also concerning the time when she had tried—her something different.

His eyes skipped to her, but this time she caught his gaze, and looked at him back. For a moment, he thought she was going to tell him something about "the backseat", but she swallowed lightly, before she spoke, "I want to hire another room."

He stared at her, for a second, accepting he had been right; she didn't want any kind of that thing with him.

As he parked in front of the motel, he nodded in silence. It was better for anyone. As she had said before, this was no fairy tale.


	27. Part VII-IV

**Part VII. IV — "The Big Picture"**

* * *

Alone in her newly hired room, Valerie studied the blueprints of the warehouse. While she was away to do her...recruiting, it seemed Bruce also get some work done, as he looked for her; a man after her own heart. He could multitask.

The last thought brought a sudden image over her eyes from the backseat, as he showed her how sleekly and expertly he could multitask... She curtly shook her head, as if to cast off the image. Nope, she wasn't going to think about that. It was a moment of heat, and it had passed. There was more important stuff to focus on now. Like how they were going to position at the warehouse.

The building had three main entry points. One was the entrance door that held the abandoned management offices. The other was the area with the four ramps that had four doors for loading and unloading the goods, and the last one; the fire exit at the backside.

The loading area was the trickiest one as it was also the weakest point with its docking ramps. They would need to split, they wouldn't cover the whole ground sticking together, and truth to be told, she wasn't sure if it was a good idea. Another heist literally next to Jason was the last thing she wanted to do, but she would prefer to keep him over at her sight as long as she could. Her back had already stabbed too many times.

And there was Ronnie, too, but she really didn't know what else she could do with him; her whole plan was depending on their separation as she needed him as distraction while they did the real job, and got Ronnie out. But she needed to keep him in her radar, too, simply to evade a misfortunate event like him learning about the truth with money...Money, Jason had claimed Rory not having.

But she would never believe any word Jason uttered, no more. She had made herself a hopeful idiot too many times, too.

A knock cut her thoughts, as her lips turned into a grim line. Standing up from the table, she went to the door, and peeked through the hole to get a glimpse of her intruder. It was no surprise though seeing Bruce standing at the other side. His back rigid, his shoulders squared, he was carrying that strain again; his release short-lived. Well, what she would expect, really?

With a subsided sigh, she opened the door, and walked back to the table. He followed her example, and came to her side. Her eyes skipped downward, toward the black pack back, where she had taken the USB stick before. He put the bag on the table, his eyes taking a hold of the warehouse too.

"We're leaving in an hour," he informed her, sitting at the chair opposite of her, his face as impassive as marble, as expressionless as stone. Valerie looked outside. It was still raining, and it didn't seem it would stop in any moment, either. In silence, she nodded. It really felt nothing had changed. It shouldn't disturb her, it wasn't like that she had expected him to drop on his knee and ask marriage, but somehow...it still hurt, and she had no idea why. Why the hell she was worrying about that anyway? It _wasn't_ like that she wanted him to do that.

"Have you looked at the plans?" he asked, pointing the blueprints with a tilt of his head.

She nodded again. His forefinger moved along it, and pointed the four ramps. "Ronnie's men should strike here, creating as much as fuss they would manage."

With another nod, she showed him the back exit. "We need to enter from here," she said, "It's the safest."

"Yes," Bruce affirmed, then paused for a second before he asked with a curt voice, "Do you have a plan how to deal with Ronnie in case that he figures out about the money?"

She shook her head. "It won't come to that," she answered, "I'll stick to him."

Suddenly, a fire lightened in his eyes, as he looked at her sharply. "No—" he rasped out, eyes boring through hers, "You won't leave my side."

She looked at him back with a blank look. For a moment, she felt oddly tired, tired of everything. "We need to split up," she said monotonously, and tapped the blueprints with her finger. "There are two more entrances, and we need to cover them both. I don't know about you, but I trust neither Jason nor Sean to team up against _us_." She paused for a second, taking a breath, and shrugged off, "Besides, Ronnie wouldn't want to keep me away from his sight, either. And it's best for him to see me together with Sean than—" Her eyes shifted at him, "with you."

The implication of her words was clear, and she knew he got it with a perfect clarity, but his expression still stayed the same. She looked at him back with the same blank look. She was fucking tired of this game. "I can take care of myself, Bruce," she told him, but this time it wasn't a challenge; she was tired of that, too. Her eyes skipped at the backpack. "Just give me my gun back."

She had looked for it in the car later, but it wasn't there. Bruce had taken it. Bruce Wayne who closed off his company's Weaponry Division at the first thing after he had regained his power from William Earle had donned a gun for her. Once that would have made her happy, but for the moment, it just sounded sad. He kept looking at her with that look, then at last he nodded, as if accepting something he didn't like, and yes, he was; he was accepting something he didn't like, but she didn't know which one; the fact he was giving her back the gun, or the fact that she didn't neither want or need his worry.

Possibly the latter. He opened the bag. He took out her Glock, put it on the table then added a few little round black balls with little spikes next to it. Leaning forward, she narrowed her eyes at the balls.

"What are these?" she asked, picking up one. She turned it around her fingers, gazing at WayneTech logo on the bottom, "Grenades?"

He shook his head. "Flash bombs," he answered, "When they crash on the ground after you click the mechanism, they create a flash that blinds any eye in the vicinity for ten seconds, so don't forget to close your eyes." He pulled out another ball, bigger and gray, with black satin spikes, and held it up for her. "This holds tear gas," he explained, showing her another one, this time smaller than both, "and this is for smoke."

She nodded, softly brushing her fingers over the metal spikes. Parlor tricks, yes, but Batman was a creature of subterfuge and stratagem, as much as Bruce Wayne was of smoke and mirrors. She opened her leather hip bag and placed the bombs inside with delicate fingers. Bruce took out another item from his backpack, and as soon as her eyes fell on it, she stared at it, her mind drawing a blank.

Bruce looked at her back, "I prepared a tracker," he explained, dangling the bracelet at the end of his fingers, a bracelet that looked exactly like her queen bracelets, "in case that something happens to your phone."

With the last comment, her head turned to his, forcing her eyes away from the bracelet. "I thought you were planning to stick with me," she said, suddenly her voice petulant.

Her lips pulled into a grimace as soon as the words left her mouth. She had no idea what made her utter those words in _that_ way, but Bruce gave her a half smile, taking her hand gently. He put on the bracelet over her wrist. "Well, my plans have a tendency not to go according to the—" As he paused for a second, as if to search a word, his eyes darted up at her, "well, not according to _the_ _plan_," he concluded, letting off her hand.

Her lips reflected his faint smile on their own records. "And you like to be prepared," she muttered, looking at her wrist. He shrugged. "How did you find this?" she asked, turning up to him.

He looked at her blankly. "From the stall on the corner," he answered.

"No," she shook her head, "How you choose _this_?" Her face soured, a thought appearing in her mind. Her smile vanished. She glared at him. "Was it Jason, wasn't it?" she snapped.

"What?" Bruce asked with confusion, "Valerie—"

"He made you buy _this_," she hissed angrily.

"No," Bruce shook his head, "No...I—I'd seen bracelets like this several times in your—box," he explained, his voice faltering again, awkwardly, "I was searching them—to find a pattern," he continued, as she let out a sigh. Of course. "I thought you liked it, so I chose something close from the stall."

She exhaled, letting another sigh. "It's my queen bracelet," she said. Bruce again looked at her with confusion. "Do you know Queen of Caria?" she asked, "She used to wear bracelets like this," she said, "She was a warrior queen. She was the commander of a naval army." She looked at him. "When her country invaded, she didn't need any man to save her, she saved herself, and her country."

Then Bruce understood what she was talking about her. He gave her a half smile again. "Valerie, Artemisia was fighting on the Persians' side," he said, "And they _were _the invading army."

She shrugged dismissively. "Details, Bruce, details..." She threw at him a half smile, too, "Looking at the details, you're missing the big picture."

As soon as she spoke the words, something in his eyes heated, just like the way before he had kissed her, savage and desperate, and his smile dropped. "I know the big picture, Valerie," he said with a voice so small she almost didn't hear him, "I always know it."

Suddenly she knew they weren't talking about her misdirected story anymore. Her smile faded, too. Bruce exhaled, letting out a deep breath out, as if he was about to something he dreaded, something he didn't want to. And she knew exactly what it was. He was right; he always saw the big picture at the end. "Valerie—" he started, "about what happened in the car—"

She cut him off, "Bruce, it's OK. You don't need to explain." She paused for a second, "I don't expect you to explain," she corrected herself. In silence, he looked at her. "I know, it was a heat of the moment," she continued when he didn't say anything, "and you—" she shrugged, "snapped. But I know where your priorities lay." Together with Rory and other millions of people he felt the need to save.

Bruce didn't say anything for a little while, but when he did it was that small voice again, as if he didn't really want to confess, but he couldn't help himself. "I don't easily snap, Valerie."

She shook her head. "Don't be hard on yourself," she countered, "You're only a man."

"I can't be only a man," he muttered, bowing his head.

She let out a small laughter, bittersweet. No, he couldn't be a man. He had to be...more.

"I'm sorry," he said then lifted his head back at her. "If things were different—" he said slowly, "you and I—" Looking at her, he trailed off, as if he couldn't even complete that thought, couldn't even let himself say it aloud.

As her breath hitched, her lips twitched into a small smile. Weird things happen all time, but that was possibly beating all of the other times. She was getting dumped in the weirdest way possible, off a relationship that hadn't even started yet, off a relationship she didn't even want at the first place.

"It's all right," she said, shaking her head, "Don't stress over it—" She stood up. "Everything turns out the way it's supposed to be."

Bruce looked up at her, his expression impossible to read. "So we're good?" he asked.

She smiled at him wider. "Why wouldn't we be?" she asked back, turning around, and started walking to the door, "It was just sex, Bruce."


	28. Part VII-V

**Part VII. V — "Alone"**

* * *

Her last words were like a punch in the guts, cruel but well-played. He guessed he deserved the cutting words after what he had told her—after what he couldn't tell her, but still he couldn't prevent a bleak resentment press his lips into a hard line. It wasn't _just_ sex. And she knew it damn well. But he had also become wise to her defense mechanisms; he could still remember how she had lied to Jason about her mementos, claiming that she had thrown them away, in reality the metal box had been the first thing she had asked from him to get back.

For a moment, Bruce thought standing up and caught her before she walked out the room, but he didn't. What they had—shared wasn't "just sex", yes, but for both of their sakes, it couldn't be anything else, either. Smart girl as she was, Valerie also knew that.

There were no happy endings with him. He couldn't be that man. He had made his bed long ago, and now was going to lie in it.

He stood up, and left the room, too.

* * *

Outside the motel, she lighted a cigarette under the alcove, and pulled a long drag, filling her lungs with smoke. The pure nicotine slowed her rushing blood, as a feeling of serenity slowly settled in her insides. She would have preferred a glass of scotch or at least weeds, but she was determined to keep her mind as unaffected as possible. Bruce should have been proud of her, she thought dryly, and crushed the thought as soon as it appeared.

Bruce Wayne and his wishes could fuck themselves to the end of the world for all she cared. Her face soured as she inhaled another puff, but she didn't let the thought wander other places. She had no reason to be resentful, not really; Bruce had never lied to her about anything. Granted he had never told her the whole truth, but at least he had never lied. Just like Jason had never lied to her.

Her hand stopped over her lips before she took another breath, the realization bringing a sudden halt in her actions. God, she had never realized how much Bruce and her father had common points when it came to caring people, especially _her_.

She couldn't believe she had fallen into this trap all again. Jason's words echoed... _I care about you, there it is, I said it. And I wish it could be enough. _But it could never be. And she was a fool if she ever believed for a tiniest of seconds that it would have.

But she had never, hadn't she, she had never believed it would have; she always knew this wasn't a fairy tale. She was the Wicked Witch of West after all, not the princess. Who the Wicked Witch had on her side? No one. She had herself, and it was enough.

She pulled the last drag from her cigarette, and threw the butt away in the rain. She raised her arm to check her watch, but before she could see the time, she saw the bracelet.

With a sneer, she yanked it open, and tugged it inside the pocket of her coat. She might need to keep it on herself, but she wasn't going to wear it, she was not. When she turned back to Gotham, she was going to throw away Jason's gifts too, until to the last item. She imagined herself tossing them out of window into a dark sky, finally free of the ties that bound her to the past. The thought brought a content smile over her lips. She deserved at least that much of a happy ending.

As the butt of her cigarette faded into a small pond of watered mud and dirt, Bruce exited out of the motel. She checked her watch again; 23:35. They had to move out. "We're being late," she said, turning toward the entrance, "Where are they?"

"They're coming," Bruce answered stiffly, nothing like the man she had left a few minutes ago, the man who had confessed her he couldn't be _only_ a man. "Jason went to rent another car," he explained, "We might need another one for a quick getaway." She nodded. "Sean was preparing—" he paused for a second, "molotovs."

She smiled with a mock, looking at him, "Each to its own."

Bruce frowned. "He had brought too much arsenal," he rasped.

"I would worry about it if he didn't," she shot back, her eyes darting around to check out the streets. They were going against a team of fucking former MI5 operatives. If he didn't want this ending in tears, they needed all weaponry they would get their hands on. But this was also the man who had dangled a whole SWAT TEAM like a men-talisman over a building. Oh, she remembered that, she had seen the footage. Her eyes skipped at him, as her mind once again marveled at the man in front of her, still, despite all things had happened between them. She couldn't help herself.

He was the fucking Batman.

Not only a man.

A wave of sadness hit her all of sudden, her breath catching. She felt her eyes burning. She quickly turned around, and let out a shaky breath. She could feel Bruce's eyes staring at her back with her sudden reaction, but she couldn't care any less.

Bruce didn't seem to care, either, though, as he stayed where he was, giving her the space she needed. For a moment, she thought if her last words had hurt him, because this wasn't the Bruce Wayne she had become habituated, but somehow she found the idea appealing. What he had thought? She would have begged at him to—fuck her on regular basis just because he was Bruce Wayne?

She held a catty hiss at the tip of her lips then noticed a white Honda parking just in front of them. Jason stepped out of the car, looking at them with heavy, critical eyes.

Fucking great. Just the thing she needed. She wondered what he had realized, because something inside his eyes changed, as he frowned then he shifted to Bruce, his look turning into a glare.

He closed to her. "Sweetheart—" he called her softly, tenderly, like it wasn't them who had had that talk on the stairs, "Are you okay?"

The question brought almost a laugh out of her. No, she wasn't okay, but she had no idea what was wrong, either. She sent her father a seething look, all anger and sorrow she had been feeling in the last days raising like a sonic wave out of her, and it hit the first target she had. "Leave me alone," she growled at him, walking away.

She went to the other Honda. She was about to get in the passenger seat, but this time Bruce caught her before she could. "Valerie—"

"You should go with Jason," she interjected, pulling her arm free.

"Valerie—" he said again.

"For the love of god," she hissed at his face, "Just leave me alone, okay?"

* * *

"What's happening between you two?"

The question brought his attention from the warehouse's plans to Jason as the older man drove to the warehouse, with tightened eyebrows and grim face. The question was also very clear, Valerie had made it certain with her scene in front of the motel. Bruce, however, had no desire to discuss it with _her father_. Actually, he had no desire to discuss it with anyone. "Nothing," he said stiffly, turning back to the blueprints.

But Jason Allen wasn't the one to let things go easily. Bruce knew from where Valerie had inherited her stubbornness. "That didn't look like nothing," Jason pressed in.

"It's none of your business," Bruce rasped, his eyes still focused on the plans.

"It's my business," Jason retorted, "She is _my_ daughter." This time Bruce didn't respond. What he could tell for that? "And something obviously happened," Jason continued, an angered tone roughing his voice, "What did you tell her?"

The question had his head snapped at the older man. "I don't understand what you're trying to imply."

"Oh, you don't?" Jason asked again mockingly, "Come on, Wayne, do you think I'm blind?" Bruce stayed silent again. "What's happened?" Jason demanded.

"Nothing—" he repeated, turning back to the plans, "Nothing happened."

Jason shot out a snort. "_That_ doesn't look like—nothing, either, boy." From the road, Jason's eyes skipped to a bruise over his skin, colored as Valerie gnawed at his neck just before she had climaxed. The moment assaulted at him suddenly, without any heed; the way she clung onto him, desperately holding, as she shattered in his arms, muffling her screams gnawing at him... He exhaled with a sharp breath, the memory flashing over his eyes, his blood running... He shook his head mentally, and chased the vivid image away. _It was just sex_, he repeated inwardly, _just sex..._

With his reaction, though, Jason's eyes turned heavier, almost accusing. "I don't care who you are," he told him, slowly but evenly, "or _what _you are, but you can't fuck with my daughter, you understand? You can't hurt her."

Bruce stared at the man. "You're the last person who can talk about hurting her, Mr. Allen," he remarked curtly, unflinching; "It's not me but you she's refusing to talk."

"Careful, Wayne," Jason seethed, "Be careful of what's coming out of your mouth."

He grimaced further, "Or else?"

Stopping the car at the corner away from the warehouse, Jason shook his head at him. "No elses." With the last word, Bruce looked at the older man as the other's attention turned to his left side. Bruce followed him. Ronnie was there, waiting for them with his men. Bruce's eyebrows clenched. Jason turned back at him. "I don't get worried over things easily, Bruce," he said, now deadly serious, "My daughter is a tough girl. She can take care of herself. I trust her to deal with Ronnie, or any other man, but with you..."He shook his head, "It's different."

"Why's that?" Bruce asked.

Jason looked at him again then opened the car's door. "You're really a son of a bitch, Bruce Wayne," he said, shaking his head, before he stepped out, "a stupid one, too."

Closing his eyes for a second, Bruce took in an edged breath, the implications of Jason's words painfully clear. He exhaled slowly. No, they had decided it was just sex. He couldn't do it. She didn't _want to_ do it, either, despite Jason's words. No. It was madness.

He stepped out of the car, too, then at the corner, he saw her walking to Ronnie, as the man watched her with a crook, cutting smile as she approached, his men lined behind him. Valerie stood in front of him. The man's smile grew wider as he leaned toward her, whispering something into her ear, then caught the back of her neck abruptly, and pulled her into a kiss.

Valerie simply stood, her body almost pressed at him but he could still see the way her back straightened. A sudden rage coursed through him, although he knew he had no right to feel like this, but his legs didn't listen to him; he took a step forward. A strong grip at his elbow stopped him. "Don't be stupid," Jason warned, then gave him a smug smile, "Besides, you have no _reasons_ to get jealous."

Bruce sent him a glare. Jason pretended he didn't understand. He simply turned back and started walking toward them.

Steeling himself, Bruce followed him. Ronnie had left Valerie, instead now was looking at Jason with cynical eyes. The gangster's eyes skipped at him for a split of second, but Bruce saw no recognition in them. He didn't expect anything else, like how Sean hadn't recognized him; he was miles away from the billionaire they might have seen in the tabloids. Yet, the man's attention stayed on him for a little while, clearly appraising then turned to Jason.

"Ah, so the circle is complete—" Ronnie sneered, and looked at Valerie. Her lips were flattened into a grimace, the chafe around the corner of her mouth redder than before, as if the man deliberately had worried the skin. His muscles tensing, Bruce almost growled out.

"I see that you made peace with your daddy the dearest," Ronnie taunted, still looking at Jason. Valerie grimaced further. Ronnie laughed. "I'm happy for you, love," he snickered, "No one likes to be alone. We all need someone." He brushed his fingers over her arm with the words.

Bruce's eyes glared at the gesture, momentarily wanting nothing to do more than to rip off the man's arm. Not because he touched her, but because his touch had a sick gentleness that harbored violence inside. It was close to the painted maniac's touch as he had held Rachel against the blade, and seeing the same thing with Valerie was hard. He made a half move toward them but Valerie's eyes shot at him a silent order not to react.

Ronnie caught the look they had exchanged. "Who is he?" he asked to her.

"A friend," Valerie replied monotonously, and looked back at him, "Are you done with introductions?" she asked, "Because you know, we have a man to get."

"Ah, you've never been that much into the foreplay," Ronnie laughed back.

Valerie curled her lips back at him. "You know me, I prefer the Casanova way—speaking of which," she continued with her business tone, "That's the plan. We're in and out. Tell your men to create as much as confusion as they can manage at those ramps—" She pointed at the docking ramps ahead of them, and warned stiffly, "But _no_ collateral damage. These men are trouble, wouldn't want to get your hands dirty."

His face turning to serious, Ronnie nodded back at her. Valerie slipped an earpiece into her ear, and turned to her father. "Jason, you're with Antony, covering the back exit," she said, her eyes darting at him momentarily. She was letting him take Rory, away from the danger and Ronnie, leaving herself in the middle of it. She was a tough girl, Bruce passed in his mind. She knew how to deal with them. He had to trust her with that. She turned to Sean, "Sean, you're with me. Ronnie—?" and looked at the gangster.

The man smiled at her, taking out his balaclava from his pocket. "Of course with you, love."

She nodded, her eyes skipped at him again. "Let's move out," she ordered, as they shared a last glance, before Bruce pulled his own balaclava over his head.

She knew what she was doing, he repeated mentally, as he walked with Jason. He had to trust that.

* * *

"We're in position," Valerie confirmed, taking her Glock 17 out, as from the other side of the building, Bruce most probably sent an EMP charge to the electricity hub. Lifting her head, she watched as the warehouse turned completely to dark, the sole light at the roof fading. For the good measure, Sean shot the security cameras as Ronnie gave the order to his men, and a big boom echoed in the dark, with no smoke or fire. They had exploded a sonic bomb.

On the cue, they breached into managed offices, as from the warehouse side she heard the certain sounds machine guns made as they rapidly fired. So it had started. Taking a deep, cooling breath, she surveyed the hall. To her left, there was the staircase that led to upper floors, but she didn't pick up any movement. With one hand, she pointed her flashlight at it, her other hand aiming the gun.

Sean had taken the right side, Ronnie at her left. She turned to Sean, and let him lead the way. The former guerilla nodded at her, and moved his fingers first in the air, then gestured the forward motion, shaking them. They took the staircase, her back covered with hall, carefully hiding in the angles, Ronnie taking up their six.

Which would be a grave mistake, given the situation.

Mentally, she shook her head, and forced herself to focus on. She needed to focus. She knew what she was doing, and everything was under control.

When a bullet wheezed in the air, just above her head, she knew she wouldn't have been that lucky. For a crazy second, she wished instead two men she couldn't trust to watch her back, she had Bruce beside her, but she squeezed the idea as soon as it entered in her mind.

No, she had what she had always had; she had herself.

With a curse, she raised her gun, and shot back.

* * *

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The gunshots blared in his ears, as men dropped on their legs. Stuck for a moment, Bruce watched them as they screamed, holding their bloodied legs with their bloody hands. His eyes darted below, toward his own hands were holding the gun. They were steady. All hell was on the loose around him, chaos wild in the screams, and he was holding a gun, but his hands weren't shaking.

He knew what he had to do.

His eyes caught a movement from his left side, and he turned, and shot at the opponent that had just come out of the place he had covered, just right in the knee and wrist. Another approached, in stealth, like a tigress approaching to his prey, and jumped on his back.

Shifting aside, Bruce threw the man over his shoulder, holding the arm that had tried to coil around his neck. He twisted the arm up in the air backside, until he heard a popping sound. The man cried with a curse, before Bruce knocked him out.

He watched himself shooting, fighting, snarling like it was someone else, not him, but another man, another creature he wasn't aware of; another Batman.

Then he saw him; the man he had come to rescue, the man he had been trying to save for days, sitting on a bolted chair, tied with wires and ropes; beaten and ruined, and a gun pointed at the back of his head.

Jason pulled off his ski mask. "You shouldn't have come, Jason," Desmond Hayes remarked, looking at the older man, his eyes shining with malign.

"It's over, Desmond," Jason said back placidly, not moving an inch, "Let him go."

The man barked out a laugh. "You know the world doesn't work that way, old man," he said, then smiled, "What was that thing you used to say? The new always triumphs the old? And, at the end—" Halting, the Inspector's eyes skipped below, toward the gun Rory, then back at him.

Jason completed, glancing at him, "—and, everything turns out the way it's supposed to." He saw Hayes's finger moved on the trigger with Jason's last words.

And he knew what he needed to do. Before the man pulled the trigger, Bruce fired.

* * *

Hissing, she clutched her upper arm, her fingers painted red, her head bowed. Sean shot at the man in front of her, and turned to her. "Are you okay?" he asked.

Briskly, she nodded. "It's grazed," she said, realizing that she had earned her second battle scar. The first time flashed in her mind, as the young patrol officer tried to shoot her, to save her sick wife. The memory felt like a life time away, like it was a different time.

And perhaps in a way it was. Neither life nor she had been the same since that day. The revelation though didn't have any big impact, no halo circled over her head, no shine of enlightenment. She would have expected lights explode in the sky, but only thing that was exploding was gunfire. With tooth and claw she fought, but for the moment, it felt the same ever.

Not that it would matter.

"You idiots!" a voice shouted from the other side of the corner, "You made a grave mistake!" She laughed. "You came for nothing!" the man shouted again, "There is no money. The fuck had given up on everything!"

She laughed again, but it seemed like a joke, not funny but neither cruel, just a joke; she was the savior; at least, but there were still no lights shining on her. Ronnie looked at her, his eyes clenching. "What's—"

Before Ronnie finished, Bruce's voice rasped in her ear, "Valerie, retreat. We have him," he ordered, "I repeat, retreat immediately."

She pressed her finger on her ear, "Copy that," she called in, and turned off the radio. She looked at Ronnie. "We're going out," she said, nodding at Sean.

She slipped away from the corner, this time taking the lead, the man at their back, still screaming, "You fools! You fools!" She took a smoke grenade from her sleeve, and threw it out of the way.

A few inches away from her, smoke filled in the air, and she took a step, but a hand at her arm stopped her. She shifted aside, and saw that Ronnie's thunderous face, looking at her. Then she knew. "You knew it?" he asked, "didn't you?" Over his shoulder, she looked at Sean, "All of this—all of this talk, it's not for the money... Why?" Ronnie asked.

Her eyes fixed at Sean, she shook her head. "You wouldn't understand," she said, as Sean raised his gun at his back.

* * *

On their way back to the fire exit, Rory stopped over a corner, clutching his side with his bruised hands. "I don't understand," he said, "Jason, what you're doing here?" the younger man's look turned to him, but Bruce knew his confusion wasn't because of the beatings he had suffered.

"We came to get you, boy," Jason answered, simplistically as ever, taking his arm to move him again.

The man's feet halted. "I don't understand—who are all these people?" Another sonic bomb exploded, machine guns following. Rory's eyes moved to him again.

Bruce took off his balaclava, and looked at him back. "You," Rory whispered, "It's you—"

Bruce took the man's arm from Jason's grip, and led him toward the back exit. "We need to move."

Rory's eyes became graver. "Thank you," he said, as Bruce opened the back exit.

"You don't need to thank me," he remarked before they stepped out.

They never needed to, never.

* * *

Ronnie shook his head. "I should have known," he muttered, his fingers tightening on her further.

"Don't be stupid, Ronnie," Sean whispered from behind, "Let her go."

The gangster laughed. "You, Sean, too?" he asked, "She's ensnared even you?" Sean stayed quiet. Valerie only looked at him, too. "What are you doing here?" Ronnie asked, "and don't tell me you came to rescue that idiot."

Sean opened his mouth, but before he said something else, Ronnie made a sudden movement, shifting around himself, and caught the hand pointing the gun at him. He corked it outside then hit it on the wall.

She made a move, as Ronnie knocked out Sean, but before she could do anything, Ronnie turned and pointed the gun at him.

"Don't move—" he ordered, she stopped, "Not even an inch."

She exhaled a sharp breath, hearing voices from other side of the hall. "Ronnie—"she said, but the back of the gun hit her before she could utter another word.

"Not a single word," he warned, grabbing her, and threw her into narrow corridor next to them, "Not a single word, I'm done with you, Fi."

She tried a finger toward her ear, but Ronnie shook his head. "Don't be smart, love," he warned, "Don't." She stopped. Ronnie looked at her. "I should have just shot you," he muttered.

She smiled, "What are you waiting for then?" Suddenly the hall fell silent. They were retreating back, all of them. Hayes wasn't a fool, he knew his operation had gone south, and they were leaving as well.

Ronnie nodded, and loaded the magazine, "You're right? What am I waiting for?" He aimed higher. She let out a breath, her eyes burning. This was how her life would end? She had never believed it. She never believed he had in it. Another mistake she had made.

Then Ronnie shook his head. "No—No—I can't—"he said. A small hitch of hope broke in her chest. He couldn't. Of course, he couldn't. But then Ronnie continued, "Not looking into your eyes. Turn around." Staying still, she looked at him. "TURN AROUND!" he bellowed, "On your knees."

Closing her eyes, she obeyed. She turned and dropped on her knees. Ronnie didn't say anything, but she heard him approach from the back, and a few seconds later she felt the cold metal of the barrel at the back of her neck. She swallowed, exhaling a shaky breath out. "Beg."

She gave out a broken laughter, and shook her head. "You know I won't," she refused. If she was going out, she would at least go with dignity.

"Beg," Ronnie repeated.

This time she stayed silent. "Oh, playing the brave, eh?" he snickered, "Well, that's new."

Valerie the Brave... the new her; it really seemed like a joke. She shook her head. "I'm not brave, Ronnie," she said, "I'm just not afraid." The words were true. She was sad, she was tired, she was even angered perhaps, but she wasn't afraid. The moment of the crash came to her again, and she remembered how scared she had felt, how alone... She was still alone, but at least she wasn't scared. "A year back, I almost died, Ronnie. It—" she halted, as if she was making a confession, "It changed things for me."

"Do you really think that I'd believe that you're only here to save that fool boy, Fi—Really?"

She shrugged. "Believe whatever you want. I know why I'm here," she answered, then paused again before she continued, "Funny things go through your mind when you're about to die—" Her lips drew into a faint smile, "Feel glad you put clean underwear, wonder how your hair looks like," Her smile vanished, "or what anyone would tell about you afterward—"

"Oh, I know what people would say after you," Ronnie said laughing, "Fi...? Ugh, she was a stupid bitch."

"Ronnie," she called him seriously, "Can I have my last wish?"

"Say it."

She smiled again. "Please, don't let anyone say I'm stupid."

Ronnie laughed back. "I suppose I can do it—" He paused for a second, as if he was listening to something, then he leaned toward over her shoulder, "Fi—do you hear it?" he whispered.

"I don't hear anything."

"Yes, nothing," Ronnie agreed, his lips inches away from her ear, "It's good that you're not afraid, love, because there is no one coming—No one cares." He laughed in her ear, "You're alone."

And, he was wrong. She had what she had always. She craned her neck to look back at him, and smiled at him. "I've got me—" she said, her hand slipping through her sleeve, "who else do I need?"

First there was a clinking thud as the metal ball crushed at the ground, then a flash, so bright she could even see it under her closed eyelids.

Then there was a bang.


	29. Part VIII-I

**The Finale Part**

**Part VIII. I — "Nothing more, nothing less"**

* * *

Valerie threw herself at the left side as Ronnie tried to fulfill his oath, his aim despite his temporary blindness having a terrible acuteness. The bullet wheezed just beside her ear, as she exhaled out a sharp but shaking breath, but adrenalin urged her forward. She didn't have time.

With a battle sneer, she launched, and tackled him down. She straddled over him as her fingers clutched around his hand that held the gun. Before he reacted, she took the gun, and leaping back quickly, she pointed it at him.

Regaining his sight, Ronnie stood up, looking directly at her eyes. "Do it," he challenged, almost tauntingly, "Do it, love."

She stood still, only staring back at him. In his eyes, she saw the truth. In them there were hurt, the hurt of his pride, and malice; a promise of revenge, because she had turned the tables yet again. For a moment, for a little but tempting moment, she entertained herself with the idea of accepting his challenge. Things would be easier; at least she would have one less problem to think of. Inwardly, she heaved a sigh. If only she didn't have this conscience. Life would have been really a lot of much easier.

"If you won't, you know I will—" Ronnie continued when she didn't speak, "Where ever you go, whatever you decide to be, _Felicia_—" he hissed the fake name he knew her by, "I will find you, and I will kill you."

She smiled, before she knocked him out, "You will try."

Quickly she returned to the hall where Ronnie had left Sean, and knelt beside the older man. As she picked up his pulse, throbbing under her finger, she sighed with relief, and called in.

"Valerie!" Bruce's agitated voice rushed into her ear as soon as she opened the link, his breath faintly but definitely labored. "Where the hell are you?" he asked.

"We're coming out," she answered quickly, starting shaking Sean, "Ran a bit of problem." There was a sudden, brief silence from the other side that was only interrupted with his snuffing breaths, "Bruce, where are you?" she asked, frowning.

"I'm coming to get you," he answered in a way that made her feel like an idiot. Of course, he was. Let no one may say that Bruce Wayne missed a chance to play the hero.

"There is no need—" she started but the line was already closed. She sighed, and leaned closer to Sean. "Come on, old man," she called him, hitting his cheek lightly, "You have too much of a thick skull to get knocked out by a simple blow."

Sean's eyes slowly opened. "Your bedside manners still suck," he moaned.

She smiled at him, and held his arm as he started standing up, "Well, I was told I'm much better _in_ it." As, he silently laughed, they started walking toward the entrance that they had come in. "Thank you—" she said, lifting her head at him, "about back there." She pointed with her head at the corridor Ronnie had pointed his gun at her the first time.

Sean shook his head, but didn't say anything back for a little while, then grumbled, "Never liked that guy. Too much pride, too little wisdom." He paused for a second, his eyes darting around. "By the way, where the hell is he?"

She shrugged, "Knocked him out."

Sean smiled as with the corner of her eyes, she caught Bruce running toward her under the faint moonlight. The night was still stormy, but it was full moon, its light pure and strong even under the thick storm clouds.

"Valerie—" Bruce called, as he grabbed Sean from her hurriedly, barely glancing at her, "Come on, we need to get going," he said, effortlessly dragging Sean, "the police are on the way."

She didn't make him repeat the words. She trotted next to him, keeping up with his long and quick steps. "What happened?" he asked, his eyes checking on her.

She shrugged again. "One of the men taunted about the money before they left," she explained fast, "Ronnie didn't take it well."

Bruce gave out a sharp exhale of breath, his lips pressing into a grim line. The retort seemed to be on the tip of his tongue, he held it back. She shook her head. "Come on, say it," she urged him.

Turning his head aside, Bruce threw at her a look. "Say what?"

"'I told you so'."

"Tonight I don't want to," he countered, but then a sudden ghost of a smile lifted one corner of his mouth, "but I did bloody tell you."

So he did, so he did. She threw at him a glance then did the most sensible thing she could think of the moment. She laughed.

* * *

One hour later, they were back in the motel, with their one plus. On the staircase, Bruce stopped her by putting a hand on her forearm and put a safe distance between them and the rest of the group. She looked at him in question. "Talk with Sean, and pack in," he instructed, "We need to leave in the morning." His eyes skipped at the men walking ahead, "We can't stay here anymore."

There was nothing she wanted to do more, but damn her conscience, there was something else to consider. "Rory—" she asked, "What about him? He can't stay around here anymore, either."

Bruce nodded in agreement. "No. I'll arrange him a cover identity," he said, then his eyes turned the men ahead of them again, fixated on a specific one, "Jason will look after him," he remarked slowly.

And that was what she was afraid of. "No," she countered stiffly.

Bruce took a step closer to her. "We need someone to cover the doctor after we left, Valerie—" he said, his eyes finding hers, "We couldn't leave something like that to the chance."

She looked at him back, "I—"

"—need to accept," he interjected.

Her eyes lit with more anger, she shook her head defiantly. Bruce took another step toward her. "There is no one else, Valerie," he said, his voice low but resolute, certain as the truth that was.

She knew he was right. From this moment, the doctor was always going to be a security risk, and Bruce wouldn't deal with it without endangering both of them further. They needed someone to watch over Christian, someone with...enough reasons. "I know how you feel," he continued, softening his voice a bit around the edges, but the certainty was still there, "but there is no other option."

No. No... There must be a way out. She couldn't go back to where she had started, not after all of this... She didn't want to get tangled again; too much confusion and bitter feelings she didn't know what to do with; she didn't want to deal with that again. She just wanted to be alone, just always, away from all of that; she wanted to be...elsewhere, in another place where emotions didn't confuse, people didn't disappoint, where she didn't have to live with insides more damaged than a fractured glass.

Somewhere else. She turned her head. "I'll send them first back to Egypt," Bruce said, "They can hide there for a while, until dust settles down."

Wordlessly, she nodded, and went to her own room to prepare.

* * *

As she walked away, Bruce looked at her retreating back. Second in the same day, he thought of going after her. She was still hurt, and conflicted, Bruce could even taste the bitter feelings as they emitted off her every pore, and he knew, with each passing moment, she was slipping away more, but he still didn't know how he could hold her.

Again, he turned, and walked to the room. Gotham. He needed to return to Gotham, be what he was; Batman. Nothing more, nothing less.

In the room, Jason was tending Rory's injuries with quick but deft movements. When he walked in, both of their eyes turned to him. Giving them a short glance, Bruce turned to Sean. "Valerie wants to talk with you," he announced. Aside Rory, everyone in the room knew what that meant. Sean nodded, then a little frown appeared between his eyebrows.

"Why do you call her Valerie—" Sean asked, looking at him.

"Why do you call her Fi—?" he asked back, "When she specifically asked you not to?" he continued, staring at the man back. Both men stayed in silence. Bruce's eyes skipped to Jason, as he was leaned over Rory, placing a band aid over a split at his eyebrow. "She's decided what she wants to be," Bruce said for the last.

Straightening from Rory, Jason nodded. "He's right," he said, "We all should respect her choices."

Bruce sent the man a glare, as Sean left the room, but the older man turned back to Rory. He approached them. "How are you?" he asked Rory, standing a few feet away from them, his legs apart, his body stiff. This was the talk he had dreaded. In the confusion of the warehouse, under the darkness, it must have been close to impossible to recognize him truly, but here, away from the danger and in the open light, the truth was laid bare.

He looked Rory's features for any hint of recognition, but there was none. Not for recognition, but no hint whatsoever. His bruised face was expressionless, carved out of a colored marble. It was a look Bruce most of times saw over the mirror, eyes glinting with a fire not because of life, but something else. He looked at him more carefully. He must be around his age, but like him, he looked much, much older.

Pulling back from Jason, Rory encountered his gaze. They looked at each other for a little while, eyes dead serious, before Bruce spoke, "You can't stay here anymore," he told him what Valerie had said, "They will be looking for you now."

Rory gave him solely a small nod. "I should have never returned at the first place," he said sotto voce.

"Yeah," Jason said, "Why did you by the way?"

Rory looked back up at him, and gave out a little smile, sad and sorrowful, and it was something else Bruce also saw over his own features from time to time. "Criminals always return to their crime scene?" Rory asked back, then shook his head, "Why did you return, old man?"

Jason shook his head, muttering a "bloody Robin Hood."

Bruce looked back at him. "I'll arrange a cover for you. You can leave with Jason. He runs a—business at the Philadelphia Corridor in Egypt," he said, his eyes turning to Jason. The older man lifted one eyebrow at him in question, his eyes holding an amused curiosity, "I have—some interests there you could tend." He paused for a second, then continued; they had already crossed the line, there was no going back now, "My company sends humanitarian aid, but our goods stay blocked at the borders for a long time—" he said, recalling what Jason had told him when they had been in Egypt. It was the best option he could find, until they found the doctor, and Valerie went to the operation, they could give him a helping hand there. "Jason runs operations to pass them through the Strip," he said, "You can help him."

Rory nodded. "I will."

"Of course," Jason said, "and when you find Christian-?" he asked, his eyes looking at him in question.

"I will contact you," Bruce said stiffly.

Jason nodded, too, then turned back to Rory. "So what we will call you, eh?" he asked, then paused, a sly smile appearing over his lips, "How about Robin?" he asked with a silent laugh.

Bruce and Rory scowled at the same time. "My middle name is Timothy," Rory said, "Tim would be enough."

"And surname?" Jason asked.

Rory—Tim looked like thinking about that for a second, before he decided on something, "My mother's maiden name," he answered, "Drake—" he looked at them, "Tim Drake."

Bruce turned. "Get ready, Mr. Drake," he told him, walking to the door, "We'll be leaving soon."

Bruce held the door's handle, but before he opened it, the other man's voice stopped him. "Mr. Wayne," he called.

Bruce steps halted, as he looked ahead, but waited him continue, "I won't forget what you did for me," the second person who he had saved without wearing a mask said to him, "And one day I will pay my debt."

Before he left the room, Bruce only nodded back.

* * *

In the room, Valerie was packing. Luckily, it was a short business as she hadn't much of anything to pack up. She took out a few remaining smoke and flash bombs from her hip bag, and placed them inside a little container and put it inside her backpack. Her hand found the little USB drive the next.

She took it out, and stared at it. She wondered how much money there was in but knowing Bruce Wayne she knew it was a lot. The knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Quickly tugging the drive in her back pocket, she went to the door.

Sean gave her a tight smile through the peeping hole. With a silent sigh, she opened the door. The older man walked in, his eyes sweeping around the room. "Packing?" he asked, turning to her.

She nodded. "We're leaving," she answered, then looked at him seriously, "You should lay low, too," he said, "Neither Hayes or Ronnie will like what you did."

Sean shook his head. "Don't worry about me," he said, "I always manage."

She knew he was right. Sean, despite everything, wouldn't do something like that if he wasn't sure he would come clean afterward, but this was bigger than he also thought, "I will still leave the country for a while," Sean continued, just like she had thought, "A change is good everyone, after all."

After the last words, he looked at her pointedly. She didn't turn her eyes away. "Do you look for Christian for yourself, don't you—?" Sean asked, "because you want to be—" he paused, "Valerie?"

She didn't hesitate, "Yes."

A new her, a new beginning, a second chance... "Where is he?" she asked.

"In Bolivia," Sean answered, "he went to work for MAS when they elected in 2005," he explained, "after the Belfast Agreement." He held her a piece of folded paper, "You can contact him through this address."

She nodded. "Thank you."

Sean nodded back then walked back to the door, "Stay alive—" he paused again over the threshold, looking back at her, then a half smile appeared on his lips, "Valerie."

She looked at the door after he had vanished, then shaking her head, she went back to packing. Just she zipped her backpack, Bruce came back again.

"I talked with them," he explained, walking inside the door, as she sat on the edge of the bed. "Rory is going with Jason to Egypt. I made a deal with him—" Her head snapped up at him, "He will cross over Wayne Relief's blocked aids through the borders." He looked at her back, his jaw squared with grimness, "I can't have them rot in the customs. I should have done something about that."

The typical Bruce Wayne, taking responsibility for everything that was wrong in the world. She didn't say anything this time, though. It wouldn't make any difference, so she only nodded.

"Did you talk with Sean?" he asked.

She nodded again, "He's going to lie low for a while, leave the city, too, I guess."

He gave her a slight nod back then looked at her directly in the eyes. "So—" he started, "where is he? Where is the doctor?"

She looked back at him, the moments flashing over her eyes rapidly; the way he crashed into the car, the way he draped his coat over her shoulders, the way he looked at her, the way he held her in the backseat; this was her second chance; to be someone else, in somewhere else, where she did what she always did; she went on. This was the way how things were supposed to be; nothing more, nothing less.

She smiled at Bruce, and said, "Buenos Aires."


	30. Part VIII-II

**Part VIII. II — "Lonely Paths"**

* * *

Taking a deep breath, she adjusted the sling of her backpack, and knocked the door. Bruce opened it a second later. "Are you ready?" she asked, looking at him at the threshold.

He stepped aside from the door. "In a bit," he said, opening the way for her.

She walked in, and sat at the edge of the bed as Bruce dismantled the equipment he had installed as his work station at the round table in the corner. She looked around the room that she had spent her last week, her eyes falling back to the bed where she had slept next to the enigmatic man in front of her, a whole fifteen inch between them.

Something pinched in her chest again. She wished she could have just walked away, never looking back. But there was time for that. She needed to get back to America first. Crossing the border to South America from North was easier than hopping around the world with only her backpack. She needed to go to Gotham first then find herself a hide-in until she retrieved the money in the bank account. Then she would find Christian... She tugged her hands insides her coat's pockets, and found the bracelet...Bruce's queen bracelet.

For a second, her thoughts stopped, her breath caught in her throat, the pinch in her chest growing into a tug. Walking to the bed, Bruce sat beside her, carefully putting another fifteen inch between them. She almost laughed. Then she noticed the letter he was holding in his hand. He extended it toward her. "When he left, Jason asked me to give you this," he explained.

She let out a sigh, but shook her head. "Valerie—" Bruce said with a low voice, not a rasp, but a soft timber, gentle, "Won't you even look at it?"

She shook her head again. No. No. She was not, because it wouldn't make any difference. "Whatever says there, Bruce, it doesn't change the truth," she answered, "I accepted it."

"Valerie—" Bruce said, "he cares about you."

She stood up. "And that's the exact thing that doesn't change anything."

She needed to leave. She just needed to put this all behind her, and carry on. Their paths had collided, and they walked together for a while, and it was time now that they went back to their own lives.

* * *

After a long time, Bruce finally dreamed something else than Rachel.

_The cell was dank and cold, and dirty, vile and depravity rotting it inside out. "A vigilante is just a man lost in the scramble for his own gratification," Ducard says, with his immaculate manner that clashes everything else in the world that surrounds them; untainted, like no dirt can touch him._

_"He can be destroyed or locked up." Like how it happened, in his dream, the words accompanied a look. He tries to say something, but couldn't find the words. They're at the tip of his tongue, but before he says them out loud, he hears what changed his life entirely, irrevocably;_

_"But if you make yourself more than just a man," Ducard whispers, crouched in front of him, "if you devote yourself to an ideal, and if they can't stop you—" He pauses to look at him, "then you become something else entirely."_

_"Which is?" His voice asks._

_And Ducard answers, "Legend, Mr. Wayne."_

_Suddenly the scene shifts, and he finds himself looking at the light green eyes in the motel room Valerie rented after they had sex. "Don't be hard on yourself," she says, shaking her head, "you're only a man."_

_"I can't be only a man," he mutters, bowing his head._

His eyes snapped open, and Bruce gave out a labored breath out, his dream turning in his mind. He closed his eyes, and slowed his breathing. A second later, he opened his eyes, and found Valerie as she lay at the other side over a sleeping mat at the cargo plane's hull, a blanket stretched out over half of her body.

Slowly, Bruce crawled to her, and watched her as she slept. There was still a slight frown over her eyebrows, a faint line over her lips, her jaw clenched decisively; even in sleep, she was keeping up her guard. A man could just take her in his arms and ease her pain, but he couldn't be just a man.

Giving out a sigh, he pulled the blanket over her shoulders, and returned to his seat.

* * *

When they arrived to Gotham, the night was aging. Alfred had met with them outside the hangar he had prepared for their return, a black car waiting. As they drove back to the manor, Valerie watched the city.

Gotham skyline was the same ever; countless city lights glinting in the heart of darkness like fireflies, the long and sharp silhouette of skyscrapers painting a blank canvas with shadows and light; a breathtaking tableau that veiled an ugly truth inside; a truth that only so few people cared enough to see through all the glittering and dazzling.

One of those few people who had seen the ugly truth was sitting beside her in silence, born just in the middle of it. There was something emitting out of him now, something like a...tremor, and it was reverberating everything around him.

Bruce had returned to his city, and his city was welcoming him.

Her eyes skipped at him, and with a glance, they shared a look. "Valerie—" Bruce said, as Alfred drove into the Wayne Manor's driveway, but she interrupted him, shaking her head.

"Let's talk about it in the morning, Bruce," she said, "when it's a new day."

He gave her a look, a long look, and one moment, she thought he knew what she was going to do. But the next, he nodded.

She stepped out of the car. Directly, she went to the guest room, her head decisively bowed down. She didn't want to look up and see the manor. She didn't want to look up and see something that would get her marveling at the reality that Bruce Wayne was the Batman.

It didn't matter anymore. He was who he was; and she was who she was.

With a quick goodnight, she went to the guest room _then_ she looked around. There was it, sitting at top of the desk, just the way she had left it. Her eyes fixed at it, she approached to the metal box. She had sworn she was going to throw it away when she had returned, this time she was going to manage.

Her hand reached out, but before her fingers touched it, she pulled back her hand. No, she wasn't going to open it. It didn't matter anymore, either. Standing in the middle of the room, she listened to the house.

It sounded like dead, no sound whatsoever. She wondered if Bruce...went out. His base probably was around somewhere here, and something was telling her that Bruce hadn't waited another day to be what he was.

Batman.

She walked out of the guest room, and started a quick search. If he was really out, then it was the opportunity that she was waiting for. She first checked the master bedroom, and found it empty. Without casting another look, she quickly shot the door close.

She swept the first floor, and the second; the dinner room, the other guest rooms, the ball room, they were all empty. For the last, she tried the study.

Before she opened the door, her hand hesitated. For some reasons, she didn't want to see the room. It was the room she had spent most of her time when she had been in the manor, where she had first seen the glimpse of the real Bruce Wayne.

_"__Why you're doing this?"_

_"__I cannot not."_

The memory flashed over her eyes, the words turning in her mind... _I cannot not... I cannot not..._ He really could not otherwise, she was seeing it now.

Taking a breath, she cracked the door open, and glanced inside, but he wasn't there, either, just like she had thought.

She was alone, and it was time to go. But her feet stayed rooted over threshold, her eyes riveted at the room, and she just couldn't turn and walk away. Goddammit!

Losing the battle with herself, she stepped into the room, and looked around, heaving a deep sigh out. Her eyes drew to the window she had been standing when he had told her those words, and she remembered how she had felt then; the desperation, and the feeling of being stuck, and how she had wanted to run away.

It felt like they were just running around the circles, but nothing seemed to change, not really. She took his bracelet out of her pocket, and looked at it. Heaving out another sigh, she clasped it around her wrist, and walked to his study desk.

No, she really couldn't leave before she said a goodbye. Not this time.

Letting out a low sigh, she sat at the desk, and took a pen, and pulled out a paper from the drawer.

_Dear Bruce, _she started.

_I'm sorry I lied, but a new day wouldn't change anything, so I'm leaving. I'm also sorry I don't have enough courage to do this face to face but sometimes it's easier to write than say, and I've been never good at saying goodbyes. You know, in the old days I would have just walked away._

With the words a smile appeared over her lips, and she continued;

_But I'm trying to change what I am, am I not? So I'm saying goodbye._

And it sounded like truth. That much at least had changed. Her eyes wandered around the room again, before she turned back to the paper.

_Cathleen always used to say you can recognize a good man by his hands. A good man has good hands. You have clean hands. They're not soft, but gentle. They know the kindness, and they knew me. I never thanked you for saving my life, but thank you, thank you for caring enough. I hope I'm not letting let you down. _

Her hand flew over the paper without hesitation, as if she was waiting for this moment, even though she hadn't been aware of it, words pouring out of her on their own records._ .. This is your life, and I've been just a guest, and guests always should know when it's time to take their leaves. Please be assured that your secret will always be safe with me, and I will protect it until my last breath and then will take it to the grave._

Another truth she realized just as she wrote it. One day perhaps someone would learn about Bruce Wayne, but it wasn't going to be because of her, if there was something she could swear on it, it was that. She continued;

_I will not take off your bracelet. I'm still wearing it, and I'll keep doing it. I know you know now I lied to you about Christian, but there is no way I can stop you from finding me if you want it, so I simply ask you not to. You once accepted me for being who I am, now please, also accept this. I'm leaving, Bruce, __because this is the way how it's supposed to be._

As her hands finally hesitated, she closed her eyes, and wrote what she had thought before they left Belfast, her eyes pricking, that thing pinching her chest again;_ Our paths crossed, and we walked together for a while, but now it's time that we go back to our own lives._

_Valerie._

She looked at the last words, the moments they had shared rapidly blinking in and out of existence before her, tears threatened to break over in her eyes. They had been through too much, had survived too much, it didn't seem right...their story ending this way... It wasn't right. With a frantic vigor, she pulled the paper toward her, and started writing again;

_PS: But perhaps one day our paths collide again, and somewhere else, we meet again. _Momentarily, her hand stopped, but she started again hastily, giving out shaking breaths, then she noticed the wetness over her cheeks. Without breaking her flow, she swept her tears away with her other hand, then put a period after her last sentence.

An end to the life she had shared with Bruce Wayne.

She folded the paper, wrote his name on it, then walked out.

* * *

Hours later, before the dawn broke, from the top of a radio tower, the Dark Knight watched over his city. He took of no account of the cold winter air as he stayed like a statue of dark, smooth marble, a haunting figure from Poe's dreams. Darkness enveloped him, and the night welcomed him like a woman embracing her absent lover back.

Whispers slowly ruffled in the darkened alleys, "He's back—" the thugs muttered between scared breaths, "He's returned."

"Batman has returned."

* * *

At the dawn, when he returned, Bruce found her letter.

He knew what was there even before he read it. Still, he approached it slowly, taking his time, but perhaps prolonging his torment. His eyes looked at his name over the paper for a second, then he opened it.

_Dear Bruce, _

_I'm sorry I lied, but a new day wouldn't change anything, so I'm leaving. I'm also sorry I don't have enough courage to do this face to face but sometimes it's easier to write than say, and I've been never good at saying goodbyes. You know, in the old days I would have just walked away._

_But I'm trying to change what I am, am I not? So I'm saying goodbye._

_Cathleen always used to say you can recognize a good man by his hands. A good man has good hands. You have clean hands. They're not soft, but gentle. They know the kindness, and they knew me. I never thanked you for saving my life, but thank you, thank you for caring enough. I hope I'm not letting let you down. This is your life, and I've been just a guest, and guests always should know when it's time to take their leaves. Please be assured that your secret will always be safe with me, and I will protect it until my last breath and then will take it to the grave._

_I will not take off your bracelet. I'm still wearing it, and I'll keep doing it. I know you know now I lied to you about Christian, but there is no way I can stop you from finding me if you want it, so I simply ask you not to. You once accepted me for being who I am, now please, also accept this. I'm leaving, Bruce, because this is the way how it's supposed to be. Our paths crossed, and we walked together for a while, but now it's time that we go back to our own lives._

_Valerie._

_PS. But perhaps one day our paths collide again, and somewhere else, we meet again. We must be older then; dry bones and wrinkled skin, but your eyes must still have the same glint like the day you saved me. I see you from the other side of the street. You're sipping your mocha in a café, and there is a woman with you. You look...content. Then across of the sea of people, you see me too. We don't talk to each other, but we smile, at the same time. The woman asks you who I am, and you say... "An old friend."_

_And it would be enough._

_Until then, my friend, stay well._


	31. Part VIII-III

**Part VIII. III — "Crossing the Rubicon"**

* * *

Bruce read the last words after and after, continuously, like if he had stopped, the world would also do; an endless ribbon of words, a link made of ink to tie him to an unforeseen future, to a wish... _Until then, my friend, stay well... Until then, my friend, stay well... Until then, my friend, stay well..._

She had left. Standing aside, he had watched another person he loved slip away from him. Like always, he couldn't stop it, just how he couldn't do anything when the gun that killed his parents shot, the gunpowder that ended Rachel mercilessly exploded, he had just watched.

Suddenly, the ink curved and started leaking, the letters dancing before his eyes, as a sharp pain struck in his chest. He let out a hiss of breath, his left hand going over to his shirt's collar as his heart pounded against his ribcage, the root of his hair wet with perspiration. Blood drummed in his ears; a loud, upsetting drone that distorted everything else in the world, as if everything was coming from beyond the space and time.

As the pain grew his body skid downward, then he watched the letter slip away from his fingers much like how she had done... His heart started galloping, as he remembered the anxiety attacks he had used to have when he was a child, frightened and alone, his nightmares full of bats that had become his brethren... A panic attack then he understood, after all those years, he was having another attack...

His hand clutched the edge of the study desk, his eyes shutting close, tightly, as he recalled all the techniques he had been taught to.

_Focus... Concentrate, _Ducard's voice was clear and certain over the ringing in his ears.

_Master your senses._

He breathed out roughly, feeling the hardened wood under his skin, and the winter chill in the room, the faint echoes of his ghostly house... too big for only two people...

_Focus_, he told himself, _concentrate._

He closed his eyes again, brushing his fingers over the wooden surface, and felt the smoothed splits under his callous skin. His head titling up, his finger drew lines in a circle, the splits catching his fingertip, until he became the circle he had made, an endless repetition, where there was no beginning nor an end; just the circle itself; life and death.

_Life's a dream... from which we pray to wake, _he silently chanted League of Shadow's mantra, _from which we pray to go. Who would sleep when the duty calls?_

_Who would sleep when the duty calls, _he muttered again, with closed lips, as the world sat back on its axis, the pounding drone inside his ears fading. His finger stopped. He let out a deep breath then opened his eyes.

It was better for both of them, he accepted. What could he offer her anyway? What he could offer to any woman? What rights he had when his priorities lay somewhere else, when his duty to his city came above everything else? No, Valerie deserved better.

He walked to the wet bar and poured himself a glass of water. Alfred walked into the study as he was drinking the second glass. As soon as he saw him, Alfred must have understood something was wrong, because the older man gave him one of those looks, eyes wary but speculative.

"Master Bruce," he asked, starting walking to him, "is everything okay?" His eyes stayed a bit longer on his face then wandered around the room— "Where is Ms. Valerie?"

Bruce put the glass on the wet bar. "She's gone," he answered, his voice low but no tremors inside, then he pointed at his study desk, toward her letter, like it would explain everything.

Slowly, almost tentatively, Alfred approached it. With a fleeting thought, Bruce wondered if one day Alfred was going to give up on him, too. He hadn't made things easier for the older man, he never did. He never did anything easy for anyone. His hand caught the glass again, and he took another sip, his throat scratching, as Alfred read the letter. Then he lifted his head from it, and gave him a long look. "Sir, what do you think to do about it?"

His hand stopped in the air, and Bruce turned to look at his butler. "What can I do, Alfred?" he asked back, "She's decided to leave."

"And you're going to accept it?"

"What _else_ I can do?" Bruce amended, snapping the "else". There was nothing to do.

But Alfred gave him another look then shook his head. "You can _fight,_" he answered, stressing the last word, "If she's this important to you," another look accompanied the words— "make her stay."

Bruce frowned, setting the glass back on the counter, shaking his head. "She's made her choice," he said, "and it's the best. Look at what I can offer her, Alfred—" He vaguely waved his hand around, "A life like this—" Rachel had dared to give it a chance, and that mistake had costed her off her life, he shouldn't ask that from anyone else. He shouldn't even have asked that from Alfred, but he didn't have anyone else... He looked at Alfred. "I'm sorry I got you into this, too, Alfred," he said, "Perhaps you should—"

Before his sentence was complicated, Alfred cut him off, "Master Bruce!" the older man cried out, walking to him closer, "Being here is my choice," he told her stiffly, "you don't get to decide that."

"And she made hers," Bruce shot back. His eyes wandered around the room, "No sane person would want something like that," he muttered.

He had expected another refusal from Alfred, but this time, the older man smiled, a kind one that warmed the stern expression over his face. "With all due respect, sir, we both know that she's not quite sane." His attention snapped at his former guardian, but no objections coming to his tongue. Alfred was right, of course, like always. None of them was sane, not even close.

Alfred took another step closer. "I understand you feel it's not the right thing to do, but you're wrong," he said earnestly, "There are still many things you can offer her; your protection, your kindness, your friendship, things would make life better for anyone. This must not be a perfect life, sir, yes," he said for the last, before he turned to leave, "but imagine how her life would be even without them?"

Alfred's last words hit a chord in him, as he stared at the door that the older man vanished. He imagined how her life would be, away from him and Gotham, but every scenario he came up turned his mouth into a scowl. He saw her in the dark, shadows shifting around her, as her eyes darted around, frightened and scared, and _alone_. Then he imagined her sitting on a bar stool, sipping through a bottle of scotch, already half drunk, then out of the shadows, a figure stepped out, and a gunshot bang... And she dropped down, red painting her with blood flowers...

With a sharp breath, he pulled himself out of his vision, shaking his head. No. Alfred was right, and they were both wrong; this wasn't how it was supposed to end, not like this. Not if he had a say in it.

His decision settling, Bruce left the room.

* * *

At a bench in the train station, she stiffly pulled the hoodie further over her forehead, bowing her head into a slight angle so that she could cast a secret glance at the two young men that were looking at her from the other corner. Evaluating them quickly—in their late twenties, already half drunks, making a way too much noise for the hour, she concluded they were just checking her out; a lone girl in the early morning, waiting all her own.

Shifting aside in her place, she let out a silent sigh. Being in Gotham was making her double nervous, danger lurking around every corner, but she'd better get used to it now. Life didn't look like it would be easy, but at least it was going to be simple; one priority she had now; staying alive. Despite many other troubles that was what was good with being on the run; you just do what you have to, to survive. That had been always her life, and she would have never kid herself believing she could have had anything else.

Unconsciously, her hand went to her pocket, and she found Michael's seashell. She let out a breath, her motions ceasing. She had taken it, together with her mother's photo, leaving Jason's trinkets behind in the manor, but now she realized that she had done a mistake. She had to get rid of this ridiculous notion of...of...finding home. Perhaps some people were simply not to have a place in the world, perhaps some people were just meant to be wanderers.

She took her hand out, and threw off the seashell. She didn't need it. She didn't need anything. She had herself. She pulled a cigarette from her backpack, and brought it to her lips, but her hands suddenly hesitated when her gaze fell at the bracelet around her wrist, that thing in the chest seizing again. She told herself it would pass, in time, it would pass away, and soon it was going to be just another reminder from her past, something perhaps one day she would throw away, too, one day.

Her hand went the front pocket of the backpack again to find the light, but before she retrieved it, from her back, a light appeared over her lips. Jumping slightly, she twisted back then looked at Bruce, as he stood hovering above her.

Stuck in the moment, she looked at him, stupefied, her hands still holding the cigarette at her lips, as his held the light. Then he gave her that smile, one corner of his lips faintly curved up. Lowering her hand, she heaved a sigh, and shook her head, "Bruce, why are you here?" she asked, her voice suddenly tired, and tears inside. She felt she would cry. Quickly, she turned, and looked ahead.

"You know why," Bruce only said, walking around toward her.

She gave out a half of laughter then let out another breath-sigh. "A sane man would just let me go," she remarked.

Sitting next to her on the bench, Bruce slightly laughed back. "Well, I don't suppose no one would call us sane."

Well, there was that, too. Huffing, she shrugged. "Yeah..."

She threw the cigarette back into her backpack, then looked at him. "Bruce—"

"Valerie—" they started at the same time.

He closed his eyes for a fraction, holding his hand in the air. "Let me go first." She nodded. "I almost didn't come," he confessed. His voice was reduced to that gentle timber again, low but certain, earnest, "but something you said had me thinking again..." Her eyebrows pulled up, "You said, this is how things are supposed to, and I came, Valerie, because I don't believe that."

She opened her mouth, but he didn't let her speak. "So you're running away now, but what would you do?"

Her eyebrows clenching further, she looked at him sternly in a defiant stance. That was a stupid question. She was going to do what she always did. "What I always do, Bruce," she answered, "I'll survive."

Bruce looked at her back with the same defiance, a frown appearing over his eyebrows, too. "You mean you'll spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder, never feeling safe, always on the run, hopping around the places, leaving people with grudges behind," he summarized her future life mercilessly, then shook his head. "That's not you," She tried to speak, but he cut her off again, "Don't try to deny it, Valerie. That life doesn't suit you."

Her eyes widened with anger, tiredness and sadness in her vanished with his challenge. He had asked for it. "Then what suits me, Bruce?" she snapped back, letting out a snicker, "Playing your faithful lapdog, doing your legwork while you play the unselfish hero?"

"Valerie, I'm not unselfish," he said back, "in fact, I'm here because my own selfish reasons, because I don't want you to go." Because he _had to_ know she was protected... He didn't want her to stay not because she was...special, but because he felt protecting her was his duty, and one could always trust Bruce Wayne when it came to do his duty. That tug pulled in her chest again, and she told herself it was okay. It was the way he was, and none of them could change what they were. She thought she would...but she was wrong.

Then he said, "But it doesn't change the fact that you've become a pivotal part of my life—" Her head snapped back at him with the sudden words, "and that you have a place here."

He let out a sigh, then looked at her directly. In his darkened eyes, she saw a determined glint, so fierce that for a moment, it stole her breath away. His eyes turned darker as he kept staring at her. "Valerie," he whispered at her, "you don't need to do this alone."

Tears threatened to break over in her eyes. She turned her head away, and bit her lips to keep them at bay. Next to her, she sensed as Bruce stood up. "I know I can't make you stay," he admitted. She finally turned back to look at him, titling her head to do so, "Only you can decide that. But if you do, if you do believe there is more to your life than this, I'll be waiting for you at the dinner room at the second hall." His eyes grew even more intense, as he stood in front of her, looking at her, "There is...something I want you to see."

"What?" she rasped, out of breath.

His answer didn't hesitant, "Where _I_ truly belong."

* * *

As he walked away, Valerie watched his retreating back, his words turning in her mind in a loop. _You don't need to do this alone. You have become a pivotal part of my life, you have a place here..._ somewhere she could belong. As soon as the thought appeared in her mind, she shook her head.

No. He had just come because he was trying to make sure she was safe, protected, like he had done even before he had known her, but at the end he did; he cared enough to come after her, the first time in her life, someone didn't let her go without giving a fight first.

What she had screamed at Jason echoed in her ears, her voice desperate, and accusing, and in pain, because it hurt, hurt so much; _you didn't find me. I found you, father. Four years, father, four years, and you never even tried once. You just let me go._

She shook her head. She wished she could say it didn't matter, could say that it didn't made her lips quaver, didn't make tears slip away from her eyes. But she couldn't, god damn her to hell and back, but she couldn't, she couldn't say that it didn't matter that she had someone who would always fight for her, _against_ her, that she wasn't really alone.

She was right; but so was he; this hero business didn't really suit her, but that life didn't suit her, either. She didn't want to pass the rest of her life like how Bruce told her. Despite what she had told Bruce, she knew she couldn't survive that, not anymore; she wasn't that strong anymore. She had weakened, or she had grown more, it made little difference; she needed _more _now, more than just...existing.

With a silent curse, she stood up, wiping her cheeks, and marched out of the train station.

* * *

Leave it to Bruce Wayne to consider everything. She let out a huffing snicker, looking at the white Honda parked along the curb at the train station's main entrance.

_Bastard._ He left her the car, _knowing_ that she would need a vehicle to return to the manor. She drove to his castle-like home with a moderate pace. She would at least have that much dignity, arriving fashionably late.

Half of an hour, the ghastly manor majestically rose over the windshield, the full moon casting the whole structure even more of a ghostly ambience. _This_, she passed in her mind, was going to be her new life. The thought was still inconceivable to her, but it was still truth. This was where she had a place. His last words echoed in his mind again, a tense worry feeling in, but she shut it off.

Letting a deep, but decisive breath out, she entered the driveway. The winged entrance doors opened even before she approached to the gate, but she wasn't surprised that he knew she was coming, she was still wearing the bracelet.

In front of the staircase that led to the main door, she parked and stepped out of the door. She slowly climbed the tall stone staircase, trying to buy herself some little time, because despite her best efforts, she couldn't stop her heart galloping in her chest.

She knew with each step she was taking, she was getting more tangled into his life, and soon it would be impossible to get herself extricate. Still, she carried on.

The main door was open, too, like she had expected, even though there was no one to greet her. She walked in, and climbed the stairs to the second hall too. And there it was, the room she had never been before, and she knew the reason now.

In the corridor, her steps reduced to a slow pace, continuous but dragging, her eyes wandering around. At the end of the corridor there was the master bedroom, another place she had never seen before, but only had a quick glimpse before she had left the manor. Close to it, in the middle, was the main guest room where she had taken a short residence. That was where she was going to live, she didn't know. She didn't want to think on that, not now. She didn't want to think anything that might get her steps falter, and stop.

But in front of the dinner room, her steps still faltered, and she stopped, but before a thought passed through her mind, she opened the door.

And there he was, next to an imperial piano, leaning over it, his eyes fixed at the door that she had just walked through, simply waiting. He watched her as she walked into the room, his eyes never leaving hers, but didn't speak, only pressed a few keys at the piano.

The bookshelf behind him silently slid, and revealed an open cage lift. Wordlessly, he turned and stepped inside, then looked at her back; his look a silent invitation.

She took it. Slowly, she walked to it, stepped inside, too. He locked the cage platform, and pulled down the lever. The mechanism came to life with a deep gargoyle, and started to descend with a speed she couldn't expect from such kind of old technology. But, she wasn't surprised, this was Bruce Wayne, after all.

Unceremoniously, the lift stopped, and still without uttering a word, Bruce opened it, and stepped out to...somewhere seemed to be...a cavern. She squinted into the dark, as Bruce turned and looked at her again.

Still standing in the lift, her eyes wandered away from him, toward the stone walls, and she heard something close to a water rattling, moonlight glinting over the wet cavern walls through the cracks into the massive build. It wasn't man-built, though, she could even see it from the limited vista she had from the open-cage lift, but a structure that had become naturally, and somehow it fitted, it really did.

_Where I truly belong..._

Then she heard it. First it was faint chirpings, in the heights above them, like the sound of beating wings, then she saw them; the shadowed silhouettes in the gloom of the cave, wrapped in by darkness, then they took the shape of bats, flying over Bruce Wayne.

And without even batting an eye, Bruce stood there motionlessly, as more followed, like an endless dark cloud of shadows, shifting and gliding, they surrounded him, their inhuman screech tearing the air.

Her legs worked on their own accounts, and she took a step back in the lift, her eyes stuck at the scene in front of her, mesmerized. She had never seen something like that before, and she wouldn't think if anyone ever did. It was monumental, and terrifying, and also...beautiful.

This was the real Bruce Wayne, standing tall and unterrified, surrounded by bats, as if he was the master of them. Batman; the man she had forced her way into his life, and got herself tangled, and right that moment she realized that that was her point of no return, her own Rubicon, and once she took a step out of this lift, once she crossed that border, she would never go back again.

She looked at the man who was staring at her so intense that any sane woman would really just step away and turn back, and forget, but she had never been that woman.

So, she stepped out. It felt like a door closed behind her, but she didn't look back. Her future was lying in front of her, with the man who was waiting for her, surrounded by his brethren.

So, she walked to him, only looking ahead.

FIN.

* * *

_The sequel, **Predicting A Riot, **is up. Hope to see you there._

_Cansei de Ser Sexy_


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